c. 

} 

••M«*«"   ,: 

J^m(MM 


Wd 


|) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


=J 


MY     FAVORITE 


BOOK-SHELF 


MY    FAVORITE 
BOOK-SHELF 


A  COLLECTION   OF   INTERESTING 
^   INSTRUCTIVE    READING    FROM 

FAMOUS    AUTHORS 
By    CHARLES    JOSSELYN 

Author    or    '«  T  H  E    TRUE     NAPOLEON" 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  SAN  FRANCISCO 
1903 


j*j     '  *  J       J*  J       J.     *         J    »  J  J   .J 


3    .  * 


J     >    J    J     »      > 


■»  ■'J 

J      i 


J    J 

J       J 

^    J   J 

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J         J  J    J  J 

J        J  J  J 


'"^'.    I.. '.'',:-  /'W'  '^y 


Copyright,  1903 
by  Charles  Josselyn 


The  Tomoyk  Press 
San   Francisco 


.*:  .'• 


1 


01 

3 


6OI4 
T7^  -vu. 


TO    MY   WIFE 


0) 

c 

CO 

3  " 18423 

o 
■q. 
Q 


NOTE 


1  desire  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  following 
authors  and  publishers  for  their  permission  to  reprint  the 
selcftions  made  from  their  copyrighted  books  : 

Harper  &  Brothers,   for  extrafts  from  Sir  Walter    Scott's 
Journal. 

The   Century  Company,  for  extrafts  from   Paul   L.  Ford's 
"  Life  of  Franklin." 

Doubleday,    Page   &  Company,   for  extrafts  from    Francis 
Whiting  Halsey's  "Our  Literary  Deluge." 

Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company,  for  extradls  from  Addison 
P.  Russell's  "A  Club  of  One." 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  extrads  from  Robt.  Grant's  Book. 

Professor  David  Starr  Jordan,  for  his  courteous  consent  to  use 
extrafts  from  his  book. 

George  Barrie  &  Sons,  for  extrafls  from  the  works  of  Viftor 
Hugo,  translated  by  W.  Walton. 

Hardy,  Pratt  &  Company,  for  extrafts  from  the  works  of 
Honore  dc  Balzac,  translated  by  Katherine  P.  Wormley. 

C.J. 


MY      FAVORITE 
BOOK-SHELF 


CONTENTS 


Addison         .....------i 

Bacon        ...--------  7 

Balzac  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -ll 

Boswell's  Johnson      .------.-  23 

Chesterfield  ...-...-..        •^y 

Dawson,  George         ...----..  j^ 

Dickens  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  "S5 

Ford,  Paul   L.  ---------  jg 

Froude  -----------65 

Goldsmith  ___.----.-  72 

Grant,  Robert      ----------76 

Gronow,  Captain       ---------  yg 

Halsey,  Francis  W.         .-.----.-88 

Holmes,  Oliver  W.  --------  gy 

Hugo,  Victor        -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -101 

Hume,  David     ----------  io8 

Hunt,  Leigh  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -lii 

Huxley     -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  116 

JoHNSONIANA  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -122 

Jordan,  David  Starr            --------  126 

Lamb,  Charles        -          -          -          -          -          -          -          -          -  -132 

Lever,  Charles            ---------  1^7 

Lytton,  Bulwer               -          -          -          -          -          -          -          -  -166 

Macaulay           -          -          -          -          -          -          -          -          -          -  181 

Mathews,  William  -._--_---      200 

Montaigne         -.-.-_---.  204 

OuIDA  -_.--------        208 

Pascal       -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  212 

Prime,  W.  C. 213 

Rousseau  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  217 

vii 


MY      FAVORITE 


l^l^^ii^iM 


,1 


RUSKIN                  ......-..--  219 

Russell,  Addison   P.              ...__-..  224 

schohenhauer          ----------  238 

Scott,  Sir   Walter               -          -          -          -          -          -          -          -  250 

Stearns,  Charles  W.       ---------  264 

Thackeray          ----------  270 

Tyndall         -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -282 


Vlll 


BOOK-SHELF 

PREFACE 


In  this  busy  age  little  time  is  found  by  those  engaged  in 
a6tive  pursuits  to  read  thoroughly,  or  study  deeply,  the  great 
works  of  the  illustrious  dead,  or  of  those  living  writers  whose 
fame  seems  sure. 

Primarily  then,  for  the  use  and  enjoyment  of  busy  people 
this  book  is  made  up  principally  from  the  writings  of  those 
whose  work  has  become  classic;  in  some  instances,  the  seledlions 
gleaned  from  correspondence  and  journals  present  brief  sketches 
of  their  lives. 

Romance,  Science,  Philosophy,  Religion  and  Art  are  touched 
in  the  seledlions  comprising  the  result  of  many  years  of  atten- 
tive reading.  Many  of  the  passages  will  probably  be  familiar; 
but  as  most  of  them  have  been  sele6led  from  the  works  of 
writers  long  dead  and  negleded,  perhaps,  by  the  world  in  gen- 
eral, it  may  not  only  be  a  pleasure,  but  a  profit  as  well,  to  have 
the  reader's  attention  again  called  to  them. 

The  current  of  many  a  life  has  been  changed  and  its  living 
made  the  better  by  a  calm  perusal  of  the  philosophy  of  life. 
Such  close  observers  of  the  great  problem  as  Thackeray, 
Hugo,  Lever  and  Bulwer,  who  look  on  life  from  the  stand- 
point of  romance,  are  here  grouped  together  with  many  of 
the  serious  and  even  pessimistic  philosophers,  such  as  Schopen- 
hauer and  Hume,  as  well  as  with  Tyndall  and  Huxley,  who 
deal  with  the  matter  from  the  cold  uncompromising  height  of 
Science. 

It  is  the  personality  of  these  authors  I  wish  in  evidence  in 
my  work,  and  not  my  own.  It  would  be  presumption  on  the 
part  of  any  man,  at  this  late  day,  to  do  more  than  call  the  atten- 
tion of  the  reading  public  to  their  works.  They  are  well  able 
to  speak  for  themselves,  and,  as  they  often  do,  teach  us  how  to 
live  as  well  as  how  to  die ! 

ix 


MY      FAVORITE 
BOOK-SHELF 


ADDISON. 


I   have  often  thought  that  if  the  minds  of  men  were  laid 

open,  we  should  see  but  little  difference  between  that  of  the 

wise  man  and  that  of  the  fool.     There  are  infi- 

11  ,  •  1  The  Difference 

nite  reveries,  numberless  extravagancies,  and  a    between  the  Wise 

perpetual  train  of  vanities  which  pass  through  ^^^^  ^„j  ^^^  p^gi^ 
both.  The  great  difference  is  that  the  first 
knows  how  to  pick  and  cull  his  thoughts  for  conversation,  by  sup- 
pressing some  and  communicating  others;  whereas  the  other  lets 
them  all  indifferently  fly  out  in  words.  This  sort  of  discretion, 
however,  has  no  place  in  private  conversation  between  intimate 
friends.  On  such  occasions  the  wisest  men  very  often  talk  like 
the  weakest;  for  indeed  the  talking  with  a  friend  is  nothing  else 
but  thinking  aloud. 

TuUy  has  therefore  very  justly  exposed  a  precept  delivered 
by  some  ancient  writers,  that  a  man  should  live  with  his  enemy 
in  such  a  manner,  as  might  leave  him  room  to 
become  his  friend;  and  with  his  friend  in  such         Friends  and 
a  manner,  that  if  he  became  his  enemy,  it  should  Enemies. 

not  be  in  his  power  to  hurt  him.  The  first 
part  of  this  rule,  which  regards  our  behaviour  towards  an  enemy, 
is  indeed  very  reasonable,  as  well  as  very  prudential;  but  the  lat- 
ter part  of  it  which  regards  our  behaviour  towards  a  friend, 
savours  more  of  cunning  than  of  discretion,  and  would  cut  a 
man  off  from  the  greatest  pleasures  of  life,  which  are  the  free- 
doms of  conversation  with  a  bosom  friend.  Besides,  that  when 
a  friend  is  turned  into  an  enemy,  and  (as  the  son  of  Sirach  calls 
him)  a  bewrayer  of  secrets,  the  world  is  just  enough  to  accuse 
the  perfidiousness  of  the  friend,  rather  than  the  indiscretion  of 
the  person  who  confided  in  him. 


MY      FAVORITE 

MM 


Discretion  does  not  only  show  itself  in  words,  but  in  all 
the  circumstances  of  adion  ;  and  is  like  an  under  agent  of  Provi- 
dence, to  guide  and  dired:  us  in  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life. 

Will  Honeycomb,  who  loves  to  show  upon  occasion  all  the 
little  learning  he  has  picked  up,  told  us  yesterday  at  the  Club, 
that  he  thought  there  might  be  a  great  deal  said 
Transmigration  for  the  transmigration  of  souls,  and  that  the 
of  Souls.  Eastern  parts  of  the  world  believed  in  that  doc- 

trine to  this  day.  Sir  Paul  Rycant,  says  he, 
gives  us  an  account  of  several  well-disposed  Mahometans  that 
purchase  the  freedom  of  any  little  bird  they  see  confined  to  a 
cage,  and  think  they  merit  as  much  by  it,  as  we  should  do 
by  ransoming  any  of  our  countrymen  from  their  captivity  at 
Algiers. 

You  must  know,  says  Will,  the  reason  is,  because  they 
consider  every  animal  as  a  brother  or  sister  in  disguise,  and  there- 
fore think  themselves  obliged  to  extend  their  charity  to  them, 
though  under  such  mean  circumstances.  They'll  tell  you,  says 
Will,  that  the  soul  of  a  man,  when  he  dies,  immediately  passes 
into  the  body  of  another  man,  or  of  some  brute,  which  he  re- 
sembled in  his  humour  or  his  fortune  when  he  was  one  of  us. 

As  I  was  wondering  what  this  profusion  of  learning  would 
end  in.  Will  told  us  that  Jack  Freelove,  who  was  a  fellow  of 
whim,  made  love  to  one  of  those  ladies  who  throw  away  all  their 
fondness  on  parrots,  monkeys,  and  lap-dogs.  Upon  going  to 
pay  her  a  visit  one  morning,  he  writ  a  very  pretty  epistle  upon 
this  hint.  Jack,  says  he,  was  conducted  into  the  parlour,  where 
he  diverted  himself  for  some  time  with  her  favorite  monkey, 
which  was  chained  to  one  of  the  windows;  till  at  length  observ- 
ing a  pen  and  ink  by  him,  he  writ  the  following  letter  to  his 
mistress,  in  the  person  of  the  monkey;  and  upon  her  not  com- 
ing down  so  soon  as  he  expected,  left  it  in  the  window,  and  went 
about  his  business. 

The  lady  soon  after  coming  into  the  parlour,  and  seeing  her 
monkey  look  upon   a  paper  with  great  earnestness,  took  it  up, 


BOOK-SHELF 


and  to  this  day  is  in  some  doubt,  says  Will,  whether  it  was  writ- 
ten by  Jack  or  the  monkey. 

Madam: 

Not  having  the  gift  of  speech,  I  have  a  long  time  waited 
in  vain  for  an  opportunity  of  making  myself  known  to  you; 
and  having  at  present  the  convenience  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper 
by  me,  I  gladly  take  the  occasion  of  giving  you  my  history  in 
writing,  which  I  could  not  by  word  of  mouth.  You  must  know, 
madam,  that  about  a  thousand  years  ago  I  was  an  Indian  Brach- 
man,  and  versed  in  all  those  mysterious  secrets  which  your  Eu- 
ropean Philosopher,  called  Pythagoras,  is  said  to  have  learned 
from  our  fraternity. 

I  had  so  ingratiated  myself  by  my  great  skill  in  the  occult 
sciences  with  a  daemon  whom   I  used  to  converse  with,  that  he 
promised   to    grant  me  whatever  I   should  ask 
him.     I  desired  that  my  soul  should  never  pass    „    /   J"j.P^  , 

,,-,-'  ,  1  •      1        yartousBoatNHab- 

mto  the  body  or  a  brute  creature;    but  this  he  itations. 

told  me,  was  not  in  his  power  to  grant  me.  I 
then  begged,  that  into  whatever  creature  I  should  chance  to 
transmigrate,  I  might  still  retain  my  memory  and  be  conscious 
that  I  was  the  same  person  who  lived  in  different  animals.  This 
he  told  me  was  in  his  power,  and  accordingly  promised  on  the 
word  of  a  daemon  that  he  would  grant  me  what  I  desired. 
From  that  time  forth  I  lived  so  unblamably  that  I  was  made 
President  of  a  college  of  Brachmans,  an  office  which  I  dis- 
charged with  great  integrity  till  the  day  of  my  death. 

I  was  then  shuffled  into  another  human  body,  and  afted 
my  part  so  well  in  it,  that  I  became  first  minister  to  a  prince 
who  reigned  upon  the  banks  of  the  Ganges.  I  here  lived  in 
great  honour  for  several  years,  but  by  degrees  lost  all  the  inno- 
cence of  the  Brachman,  being  obliged  to  rifle  and  oppress  the 
people  to  enrich  my  sovereign ;  till  at  length,  I  became  so  odious 
that  my  master  to  recover  his  credit  with  his  subjects,  shot  me 
through  the  heart  with  an  arrow,  as  I  was  one  day  addressing 
myself  to  him,  at  the  head  of  his  army. 


MY      FAVORITE 


Upon  my  next  remove,  I  found  myself  in  the  woods,  un- 
der the  shape  of  a  jackal,  and  soon  listed  myself  in  the  service 
of  a  lion.  I  used  to  yelp  near  his  den  about  midnight,  which 
was  his  time  of  rouzing  and  seeking  after  his  prey.  He  always 
followed  me  in  the  rear,  and  when  I  had  run  down  a  fat  buck, 
a  wild  goat,  or  an  hare,  after  he  had  feasted  very  plentifully 
upon  it  himself,  would  now  and  then  throw  me  a  bone  that  was 
but  half-picked  for  my  encouragement;  but  upon  my  being  un- 
successful in  two  or  three  chaces,  he  gave  me  such  a  confounded 
gripe  in  his  anger,  that  I  died  of  it. 

In  my  next  transmigration  I  was  again  set  upon  two  legs, 

and  became  an  Indian   tax-gatherer;  but  having  been  guilty  of 

great  extravagances,  and  being  married  to  an  ex- 

The  Indian        pensive  jade  of  a  wife,  I  ran  so  cursedly  in  debt, 

Tax-gatherer.      that   I   durst  not  show  my    head:     I    could  no 

sooner  step  out  of  my  house,  but  I  was  arrested 

by  somebody  or  other  that  lay  in  wait  for  me.     As   I  ventured 

abroad  one  night  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  I  was  taken  up  and 

hurried  into  a  dungeon,  where  I  died  a  few  months  after. 

f^'^j^'My  soul  then  entered  into  a  flying-fish,  and  in   that  state 

led  a  most  melancholy  life  for  the  space  of  six  years.     Several 

fishes  of  prey  pursued  me  when   I   was  in  the 

The  Flying        water,  and  if  I    betook  myself  to  my  wings,  it 

Fiih.  was  ten  to  one  but  I  had  a  flock  of  birds  aiming 

at  me.     As  I  was  one   day  flying  amidst  a  fleet 

of  English  ships,  I  observed  a  huge  sea-gull  whetting  his   bill 

and   hovering  just  above  my  head;   upon  my  dipping  into  the 

water  to  avoid  him,  I  fell  into  the  mouth  of  a  monstrous  shark 

that  swallowed  me  down  in  an  instant. 

'ii;.  ~.  I  was  some  years  afterwards,  to  my  great  surprise,  an  emi- 
nent   banker    in    Lombard    Street;     and    remembering    how    I 
formerly  suffered  for  want  of  money,  became  so 
,     ,     ,'  very  sordid  and  avaricious,  that  the  whole  town 

Lombard  btreet  •  \      \  r  t  •  iiri         ii 

Banker  cned  shame  or  me.      1  was  a  miserable  little  old 

fellow  to   look   upon,  for   I    had   in   a   manner 

starved  myself,  and  was  nothing  but  skin  and  bone  when  I  died. 


BOOK-SHELF 


I  was  afterwards  very  much  troubled  and  amazed  to  find 

myself  dwindled  into  an  emmet.      I  was  heartily  concerned  to 

make  so  insignificant  a  figure,  and  did  not  know 

but  some  time  or  other  1  might  be  reduced  to  a         rr,i     a  . 
...  D  .      ,  The  Ant. 

mite  it  1  did  not  mend  my  manners.  1  there- 
fore applied  myself  with  great  diligence  to  the 
offices  that  were  allotted  me,  and  was  generally  looked  upon  as 
the  notablest  ant  in  the  whole  molehill.  I  was  at  last  picked  up 
as  I  was  groaning  under  a  burden,  by  an  unlucky  cock-sparrow 
that  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  before  made  great  dep- 
redations upon  our  commonwealth. 

I    then   bettered   my  condition  a  little,  and  lived  a  whole 
summer  in  the  shape  of  a  bee;   but  being  tired  of  the  painful 
and  penurious  life  I  had  undergone  in  my  two 
last  transmigrations,  I  fell  into  the  other  extreme  ^,    ^ 

and  turned  drone.     As  I  one  day  headed  a  party 
to  plunder  an  hive,  we  were  received  so  warmly 
by  the  swarm  which   defended  it,  that  we  were  most  of  us  left 
dead  on  the  spot. 

I   might  tell  you  of  many  other   transmigrations  which   I 
went  through :  how  I  was  a  town-rake,  and  afterwards  did  pen- 
ance in  a  bay  gelding  for  ten  years ;  as  also  how 
I  was  a  tailor,  a  shrimp,  and  a  tom-tit.     In  the        ^^^  Tailor. 
last  of  these  my  shapes  I  was  shot  during  the        The  Shrimp. 
Christmas   holidays   by  a    young  Jack-a-napes, 
who  must  needs  try  his  new  gun  upon  me. 

But  I  shall  pass  over  these  and  several  other  stages  of  life, 
to  remind  you  of  the  young  beau  who  made  love  to  you  about 
six  years  since.     You  may  remember,  madam, 
how  he  masked,  and  danced,  and  sung,  and  played       „,,    ^    , 
a  thousand  tricks  to  gain  you,  and  how  he  was 
at  last  carried  off  by  a  cold  that  he  got  under 
your  window  one  night  in  a  serenade.      I  was  that  unfortunate 
young  fellow,  whom  you  were  then  so  cruel  to.     Not  long  after 
my  shifting  that  unlucky  body,  I   found  myself  upon  a  hill  in 
Ethiopia,  where  I   lived  in  my  present  grotesque  shape,  till   I 


MY      FAVORITE 


was  caught  by  a  servant  of  the  English  fad:ory,  and  sent  over 
into  Great  Britain.  I  need  not  inform  you  how  I  came  into 
your  hands.  You  see,  madam,  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  you 
have  had  me  in  a  chain:  I  am,  however,  very  happy  in  this  my 
captivity,  as  you  often  bestow  on  me  those  kisses  and  caresses 
which  I  would  have  given  the  world  for,  when  I  was  a  man.  I 
hope  this  discovery  of  my  person  will  not  tend  to  my  disadvan- 
tage, but  that  you  will  still  continue  your  accustomed  favors  to 

Your  most  devoted 

Humble  servant, 

Pugg. 

P.  S. — I  would  advise  your  little  shock  dog  to  keep  out  of 
my  way  for  as  I  look  upon  him  to  be  the  most  formidable  of 
my  rivals,  I  may  chance  one  time  or  other  to  give  him  such  a 
snap  as  he  won't  like. 


BOOK-SHELF 

BACON. 


A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in   hours,  if  he 
have  lost  no  time;  but  that  happeneth  rarely.     Generally,  youth 
is  like  the  first  cogitations,  not  so  wise  as  the 
second;  for  there  is  a  youth  in  thoughts  as  well       Of  Youth  and 
as  in  ages;  and  yet  the  invention  of  young  men  4?^- 

is  more  lively  than  that  of  old,  and  imaginations 
stream  into  their  minds  better,  and,  as  it  were,  more  divinely. 
Natures  that  have  much  heat,  and  great  and  violent  desires  and 
perturbations,  are  not  ripe  for  adion  till  they  have  passed  the 
meridian  of  their  years ;  as  it  was  with  Julius  Caesar  and  Sep- 
timius  Severus ;  of  the  latter  of  whom  it  is  said,  "  Juventutem 
egit  erroribus,  imo  furoribus  plenum  "  (he  passed  his  youth  full 
of  errors,  of  madness  even) ;  and  yet  he  was  the  ablest  emperor, 
almost,  of  all  the  list;  but  reposed  natures  may  do  well  in 
youth,  as  is  seen  in  Augustus  Caesar,  Cosmus  Duke  of  Florence, 
Gaston  de  Foix,  and  others.  On  the  other  side,  heat  and  vi- 
vacity in  age  is  an  excellent  composition  for  business.  Young 
men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to  judge,  fitter  for  execution  than 
for  counsel,  and  fitter  for  new  projedis  than  for  settled  business; 
for  the  experience  of  age,  in  things  that  fall  within  the  compass 
of  it,  dire6teth  them;  but  in  new  things  abuseth  them.  The 
errors  of  young  men  are  the  ruin  of  business;  but  the  errors  of 
aged  men  amount  but  to  this,  that  more  might  have  been  done, 
or  sooner. 

Young  men,  in  the  condud:  and  manage  of  adions,  embrace 
more  than  they  can  hold,  stir  more  than  they  can  quiet;  fly  to 
the  end  without  consideration  of  the  means  and  degrees ;  pursue 
some  few  principles  which  they  have  chanced  upon  absurdly; 
care  not  to  innovate,  which  draws  unknown  inconveniences;  use 
extreme  remedies  at  first ;  and  that,  which  doubleth  all  errors, 
will  not  acknowledge  or  retrad  them,  like  an  unready  horse,  that 

7 


MY     FAVORITE 


will  neither  stop  nor  turn.  Men  of  age  objed:  too  much,  con- 
sult too  long,  adventure  too  little,  repent  too  soon,  and  seldom 
drive  business  home  to  the  full  period,  but  content  themselves 
with  a  mediocrity  of  success.  Certainly  it  is  good  to  compound 
employments  of  both;  for  that  will  be  good  for  the  present, 
because  the  virtues  of  either  age  may  corre6t  the  defeats  of  both; 
and  good  for  succession,  that  young  men  may  be  learners,  while 
men  in  age  are  adors;  and  lastly,  good  for  externe  accidents, 
because  authority  followeth  old  men,  and  favor  and  popularity 
youth;  but  for  the  moral  part,  perhaps,  youth  will  have  the  pre- 
eminence, as  age  hath  for  the  politic.  A  certain  Rabbin,  upon 
the  text,  "Your  young  men  shall  see  visions,  and  your  old  men 
shall   dream   dreams,"   inferreth   that   young  men  are  admitted 

nearer   to    God    than    old,  because  vision    is    a 

Of  Toutb  and      clearer  revelation  than  a  dream ;  and  certainly  the 

^gf-  more  a  man  drinketh  of  the  world  the  more  it 

intoxicateth;  and  age  doth  profit  rather  in  the 
powers  of  understanding,  than  in  the  virtues  of  the  will  and 
affe(^tions.  There  be  some  have  an  over-early  ripeness  in  their 
years,  which  fadeth  betimes;  these  are,  first,  such  as  have  brittle 
wits,  the  edge  whereof  is  soon  turned;  such  as  was  Hermogenes 
the  rhetorician,  whose  books  are  exceedingly  subtle,  who  after- 
wards waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort  is  of  those  that  have  some 
natural  dispositions,  which  have  better  grace  in  youth  than  in 
age;  such  as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuriant  speech,  which  becomes 
youth  well,  but  not  age;  so  Tully  saith  of  Hortensius:  '■^ Idem 
manebat,  neque  idem  decebat."  (He  remained  the  same,  but 
with  the  advance  of  years  was  not  so  becoming.)  The  third  is 
of  such  as  take  too  high  a  strain  at  the  first,  and  are  magnani- 
mous more  than  tra6t  of  years  can  uphold;  as  was  Scipio  Afri- 
canus,  of  whom  Livy  saith,  in  effe6t,  "  Ultima  primis  cedebani." 
(The  close  was  unequal  to  the  beginning.) 

There  is  a  wisdom  in  this  beyond  the  rules  of  physic.  A 
man's  own  observation,  what  he  finds  good  of,  and  what  he  finds 
hurt  of,  is  the  best  physic  to  preserve  health;  but  it  is  a  safer 
conclusion  to  say,  "This  agreeth   not  well  with  me,  therefore  I 

8 


BOOK-SHELF 


will  not  continue  it;"  than  this,  "I  find  no  offense  of  this,  there- 
fore I  may  use  it:"  for  strength  of  nature  in  youth  passeth  over 
many  excesses,  the  effed;s  of  which  must  be  felt 
in  old  age.      Discern  of  the  coming  on  of  years,         n 
and  think  not  to  do  the  same  things  still;   for  Health. 

age  will  not  be  defied.  Beware  of  sudden  change 
in  any  great  point  of  diet,  and  if  necessity  enforce  it,  fit  the  rest 
to  it;  for  it  is  a  secret  both  in  nature  and  state,  that  it  is  safer  to 
change  many  things  than  one.  Examine  thy  customs  of  diet, 
sleep,  exercise,  apparel,  and  the  like;  and  try  in  anything  thou 
shalt  judge  hurtful  to  discontinue  it  by  little  and  little;  but  so, 
as  if  thou  dost  find  any  inconvenience  by  the  change,  thou  come 
back  to  it  again;  for  it  is  hard  to  distinguish  that  which  is  gen- 
erally held  good  and  wholesome,  from  that  which  is  good  par- 
ticularly, and  fit  for  thine  own  body.  To  be  free-minded  and 
cheerfially  disposed  at  hours  of  meat,  and  of  sleep,  and  of  exer- 
cise, is  one  of  the  best  precepts  of  long  lasting.  As  for  the 
passions  and  studies  of  the  mind,  avoid  envy,  anxious  fears, 
anger  fretting  inwards,  subtle  and  knotty  inquisitions,  joys  and 
exhilarations  in  excess,  sadness  not  communicated.  Entertain 
hopes,  mirth  rather  than  joy,  variety  of  delights,  rather  than 
surfeit  of  them;  wonder  and  admiration,  and  therefore  novel- 
ties; studies  that  fill  the  mind  with  splendid  and  illustrious  ob- 
jed:s,  as  histories,  fables,  and  contemplations  of  nature.  If  you 
fly  physic  in  health  altogether,  it  will  be  too  strange  for  your 
body  when  you  shall  need  it;  if  you  make  it  too  familiar,  it 
will  work  no  extraordinary  effedl  when  sickness  cometh.  I  com- 
mend rather  some  diet  for  certain  seasons,  than  frequent  use  of 
physic,  except  it  be  grown  into  a  custom ;  for  those  diets  alter 
the  body  more,  and  change  it  less.  Despise  no  new  accident  in 
your  body,  but  ask  opinion  of  it.  In  sickness  resped  health 
principally;  and  in  health,  adion;  for  those  that  put  their  bodies 
to  endure  in  health,  may,  in  most  sicknesses,  that  are  not  very 
sharp,  be  cured  with  only  diet  and  tendering.  Celsus  could 
never  have  spoken  it  as  a  physician,  had  he  not  been  a  wise  man 
withal,  when  he  giveth  it  for  one  of  the  great  precepts  of  health 


MY      FAVORITE 


and   lasting,  that  a  man  do  vary  and  interchange  contraries,  but 

with   an   incHnation  to  the  more    benign  extreme.      Use  fasting 

and  full  eating,  but  rather  full  eating;  watching  and  sleep,  but 

rather    sleep;    sitting   and    exercise,   but    rather 

_       *  exercise,  and  the  like.      So  shall   nature  be  cher- 

Rfgtmen  :rj  .   ,      ,  ,  ,  .  t-ii        •   • 

HeaUb  ished  and  yet  taught  masteries,      rhysicians  are 

some  of  them  so  pleasing  and  conformable  to 
the  humor  of  the  patient,  as  they  press  not  the  true  cure  of 
the  disease;  and  some  other  are  so  regular  in  proceeding  accord- 
ing to  art  for  the  disease,  as  they  respedt  not  sufficiently  the 
condition  of  the  patient.  Take  one  of  a  middle  temper;  or,  if 
it  may  not  be  found  in  one  man,  combine  two  of  either  sort;  and 
forget  not  to  call  the  best  acquainted  with  your  body,  as  the  best 
reputed  for  his  faculty. 


lO 


BOOK-SHELF 


BALZAC 


Every  life  has  its  climax,  a  period  when  causes  are  at  work, 
and  are  in  exa6l  relation  to  results.     This  midday  of  life,  when 
living  forces  find  their  equilibrium  and  put  forth 
their  productive  powers  with  full  effed,  is  com-       ^^^^' ^  ^J^'^^^ 
men  not  only  to  organized  beings  but  to  cities,    DeatFTnemands. 
nations,  ideas,  institutions,  commerce,  and  com- 
mercial enterprises,  all  of  which,  like  noble  races,  and  dynasties, 
are  born  to  rise  and  fall.     From  whence  comes  the  vigor  with 
which  this  law  of  growth  and  decay  applies  itself  to  all  organ- 
ized   things   in    this    lower   world?      Death    itself    in    times   of 
scourge,  has  periods  when  it  advances,  slackens,  sinks  back,  and 
slumbers.     Our  globe  is  perhaps  only  a  rocket  a  little  more  con- 
tinuing than  the  rest. 

History,  recording  the  causes  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  all 
things  here  below,  could  enlighten  man  as  to  the  moment  when 
he  might  arrest  the  play  of  all  his  faculties;  but  neither  the  con- 
querors, nor  the  ad:ors,  nor  the  women,  nor  the  writers  in  the 
great  drama  will  listen  to  the  salutary  voice. 

Why  are  there  no  modern  pyramids  to  recall  ceaselessly  the 

one  principle  which  dominates  the  common-weal  of  nations  and 

of  individual  life  ?     When  the  effed:  produced 

is  no  longer  in  dired:  relation  nor  in  equal  pro-        ,  !^        "\, 

°     ,  , .  .       .         I  ^    ,     *^  and  Stones  tell  us 

portion  to  the  cause,  disorganization  has  begun.        of  the  Past. 

And  yet  such  monuments  stand  everywhere;  it 

is  tradition  and  the  stones  of  the  earth  which  tell  us  of  the  past, 

which  set  a  seal  upon  the  caprices  of  indomitable  destiny,  whose 

hand  wipes  out  our  dreams,  and  shows  us  that  all  great  events 

are   summed   up   in   one    idea.     Troy   and   Napoleon    are    but 

poems. 


I  I 


MY      FAVORITE 


Some  moralists   hold   that  love  is  an  involuntary  passion, 

the  most  disinterested,  the  least  calculating,  of  all  the  passions 

except    maternal  love.    This  opinion  carries  with 

e     e/orme        j^.  ^  yulgar  error.     Though  the  majority  of  men 
Must  Inspire  Love  ,     ^.  r    i  r  ^  •     • 

or  Fear.  "^^Y  "^  ignorant  or  the  causes  or  love,  it  is  none 

the  less  true  that  all  sympathy,  moral  or  physi- 
cal, is  based  upon  calculations  made  either  by  the  mind,  or  by 
sentiment  or  brutality.  Love  is  an  essentially  selfish  passion. 
Self  means  deep  calculation.  To  every  mind  which  looks  only 
at  results,  it  will  seem  at  first  sight  singular  and  unlikely  that  a 
beautiful  girl  should  love  a  poor  lame  fellow  with  red  hair.  Yet 
this  phenomenon  is  completely  in  harmony  with  the  arithmetic 
of  middle-class  sentiments.  To  explain  it,  would  be  to  give  the 
reason  of  marriages  which  are  constantly  looked  upon  with  sur- 
prise, marriages  between  tall  and  beautiful  women  and  puny 
men,  or  between  ugly  little  creatures  and  handsome  men. 
Every  man  who  is  cursed  with  some  bodily  infirmity,  no  matter 
what  it  is, —  club-feet,  a  halting  gait,  a  humped  back,  excessive 
ugliness,  claret  stains  upon  the  cheek,  Roguin's  species  of 
deformity,  and  other  monstrosities  the  result  of  causes  beyond 
the  control  of  the  sufferer, —  has  but  two  courses  open  to 
him  ;  either  he  must  make  himself  feared,  or  he  must  practise 
the  virtues  of  exquisite  loving-kindness  ;  he  is  not  permitted 
to  float  in  the  middle  currents  of  average  conduct  which  are 
habitual  to  other  men.  If  he  takes  the  first  course  he  prob- 
ably has  talent,  genius,  or  strength  of  will ;  a  man  inspires  terror 
only  by  the  power  of  evil,  respedt  by  genius,  fear  through  force 
of  mind. 

When  a  man  crushed  by  misfortune  is  once  able  to  make 

the  fidtion  of  a  hope  for  himself  by  a  series  of  arguments,  more 

or  less  reasonable,  with  which  he  bolsters  him- 

Hope  Born  of      self  up  to  rest  his  head,  it  often  happens  that  he 

Illusions.  is    really    saved.      Many    a    man    has    acquired 

energy   from   the  confidence    born   of   illusions. 

Possibly,  hope  is  the  better  half  of  courage;  indeed,  the  Catholic 

12 


BOOK-SHELF 


religion  makes  it  a  virtue.  Hope!  has  it  not  sustained  the 
weak,  and  given  the  fainting  heart  time  and  patience  to  await  the 
chances  and  changes  of  life? 

"Listen,"  said  Claparon,  after  a  pause.  "Such  master- 
strokes need  men.  There's  the  man  of  genius  who  hasn't  a  sou 
—  like  all  men  of  genius.  Those  fellows  spend  their  thoughts 
and  spend  their  money  just  as  it  comes.  Imagine  a  pig  rooting 
round  a  truffle-patch ;  he  is  followed  by  a  jolly  fellow,  a  moneyed 
man,  who  listens  for  the  grunt  as  piggy  finds  the  succulent. 
Now  when  the  man  of  genius  has  found  a  good  thing,  the  mon- 
eyed man  taps  him  on  the  shoulder  and  says,  "What  have  you 
got  there?  You  are  rushing  into  the  fiery  furnace,  my  good 
fellow,  and  you  haven't  the  loins  to  run  out  again.  There's  a 
thousand  francs ;  just  let  me  take  it  in  hand  and  manage  the 
affair."  Very  good!  The  banker  then  convokes  the  traders: 
" My  friends,  let  us  go  to  work;  write  a  prospectus !  Down  with 
humbug!"  On  that  they  get  out  the  hunting-horns  and  shout 
and  clamor,  "One  hundred  thousand  francs  for  five  sous!  or 
five  sous  for  one  hundred  thousand  francs  !  Gold  mines !  Coal 
mines!"  in  short  all  the  clap-trap  of  commerce. 

We  buy  up  men  of  arts  and  sciences;  the  show  begins;  the 
public  enters;  it  gets  its  money's  worth,  and  we  get  the  profits. 
The  pig  is  penned  up  with  his  potatoes,  and  the  rest  of  us  wal- 
low in  bank-notes.     There  it  all  is,  my  good  sir! 

Come  go  into  the  business  with  us.  What  would  you  like 
to  be, —  pig,  buzzard,  clown,  or  millionaire?  Refled;  upon  it; 
I  have  now  laid  before  you  the  whole  theory  of  the  modern 
loan  system.  Come  and  see  me  often;  you'll  always  find  me  a 
jovial,  jolly  fellow.  French  joviality  —  gayety  and  gravity  — 
all  in  one — never  injures  business;  quite  the  contrary.  Men 
who  quaff  the  sparkling  cup  are  born  to  understand  each  other. 
Come,  another  glass  of  champagne!  it  is  good  I  tell  you!  It 
was  sent  to  me  from  Epernay  itself,  by  a  man  for  whom  I  once 
sold  quantities  at  a  good  price — I  used  to  be  in  wines.  He 
shows  his  gratitude  and  remembers  me  in  my  prosperity;  very 
rare,  that. 


MY      FAVORITE 


Society  abhors  sorrows  and  the  sorrowful,  hates  them  like  a 
contagion,  and    never  hesitates  in  its  choice    between  them  and 

"  Liugb  and  the     vice,  vice   is  luxury.      No   matter  how  majestic 
WorU  Laughs  with  grief  may  be,  society  knows  how  to  belittle  it, 

Tou:  Weep,  and  and  to  ridicule  it  with  a  witticism;  it  draws  cari- 
Tou  Weep  Alone:'  matures  and  flings  them  at  the  heads  of  dethroned 
monarchs  in  return  for  affronts  it  fancies  it  has  received.  Like 
the  young  Romans  of  the  Circus,  society  has  no  mercy  for  the 
dying  gladiator;  it  battens  on  gold,  it  lives  by  cruel  mockery. 
"  Death  to  the  weak"  is  the  cry  of  that  equestrian  order  which 
exists  among  all  the  nations  upon  earth;  and  the  sentence  is 
written  on  hearts  that  are  sodden  in  opulence  or  swollen  by  aris- 
tocracy. Look  at  the  children  in  a  college  school;  behold  there 
a  minature  image  of  society,  all  the  more  true  because  it  is  art- 
less and  honest.  See  those  poor  helots,  creatures  of  pain  and 
mortification,  placed  between  contempt  and  pity;  the  gospel 
tells  such  as  they  are  of  heaven !  Go  a  little  lower  in  the  scale 
of  organized  beings.  If  a  fowl  falls  sick  in  a  poultry  yard,  all 
the  others  peck  at  it,  pluck  out  its  feathers,  and  finally  kill  it. 
Faithful  to  its  code  of  selfishness,  the  world  punishes  sorrows 
that  dare  to  invade  its  feasts  and  dim  its  pleasures.  Whoever 
suffers  in  body  or  soul,  or  lacks  power  and  money,  is  a  pariah  in 
society.  Let  him  stay  in  his  own  desert;  if  he  crosses  the  bor- 
ders of  it  he  enters  ar6lic  regions,  he  encounters  cold  looks,  cold 
manners,  cold  hearts;  he  is  fortunate  if  he  escapes  insult  in 
places  where  he  ought  to  look  for  consolation.  Stay  on  your 
deserted  beds,  ye  dying!  Old  men,  live  alone  beside  your 
smouldering  hearths!  Poor  portionless  girls,  freeze  or  burn  in 
your  solitary  chambers!  If  the  world  tolerates  a  misfortune  it 
is  that  it  may  fashion  it  to  its  own  uses,  find  some  profit  in  it, 
saddle  it,  bit  it,  put  a  pack  upon  its  back,  and  make  it  serve  a 
purpose.  Trembling  companion  of  some  old  countess,  look 
gay!  bear  the  whimsies  of  your  pretended  benefactress,  carry 
her  poodle,  amuse  her,  fathom  her,  but  be  silent.  And  you, 
king  of  valets  out  of  livery,  impudent  parasite,  leave  your  char- 
a(^ter   behind  you ;    feed  with  your  amphitryon,  weep  with  his 

H 


BOOK-SHELF 


tears,  laugh  with  his  laughter,  and  call  his  witticisms  wit;  if  you 
want  to  deny  his  virtues,  wait  till  he  falls.  No,  the  world 
never  honors  misfortune;  it  drives  it  away,  reviles,  chastises,  or 
kills  it. 

There  are  people  who   come  at    last  to  perceive   that  they 
have    nothing   more  to  gain    from  those  who    know  them  well. 
To   such   they  have   shown   the   hollowness  of 
their  natures;  they  know  themselves  judged  and         Craving  for 
severely  judged ;    yet  so  insatiable  is  their  crav-  Flattery. 

ing  for  flattery,  so  devouring  their  desire  to 
assume  in  the  eyes  of  others  the  virtues  which  they  have  not 
got,  that  they  court  the  esteem  and  afFeftion  of  strangers  who  do 
not  know  them  and  therefore  cannot  judge  them,  taking  the 
risk  of  losing  all  such  credit  eventually.  There  is  also  another 
class  of  minds  born  selfish,  who  will  not  do  good  to  friends  or 
neighbors  because  it  is  their  duty  to  do  it,  while  by  paying  atten- 
tion to  strangers  they  secure  a  return  of  thanks  and  praise  which 
feeds  their  self-love.  The  nearer  people  stand  to  them  the  less 
they  will  do  for  them ;  widen  the  circle,  and  they  are  more  ready 
to  lend  a  helping  hand. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  ideas  strike  with  a  force  propor- 
tionate to  the  vigor  of  their  conception ;   they  hit  the  mark  at 
which  they  are  aimed  by  some  such  mathemat- 
ical law  as  that  which  guides  the  shell  when  it        The  Dynamic 
leaves   the  mouth  of  the  cannon.     The  effects  1^^^- 

are  various.  There  are  tender  natures  which 
ideas  penetrate  and  blast  to  ashes;  there  are  vigorous  natures, 
skulls  of  iron,  from  which  the  thoughts  and  wills  of  other  men 
glance  off  like  bullets  flattened  as  they  strike  a  wall ;  others 
again,  are  soft  and  cottony,  and  into  them  ideas  sink  dead,  like 
cannon-balls  that  bury  themselves  in  the  earthworks  of  a  fortifi- 
cation. 


15 


MY      FAVORITE 


However  coarse  the  fibre  of  the  individual,  let  him  be  held 

by  a  strong  and  genuine  afFeftion,  and  he  exhales,  as  it  were,  an 

essence  which   illuminates  his  features,  inspires 

7  f^  his  gestures,  and  gives  cadence  to  his  voice.      It 

StrenPtbofGenutne    ,        °  .     °        ,  i         i    n  i  i 

AfTeaion  happens  sometimes  that  the  dullest  soul  under 

the  lash  of  passion  attains  to  such  eloquence  of 

thought,  if  not  of  language,  that  it  seems  to  move  in  luminous 

air.     Are  not  our  loftiest  emotions  the  poetry  of  the  human  will? 

The  peasant,  however,  would   rather  listen  to  the  man  who 

prescribes  for  his  body  than  to  the   priest  who  discourses  on  the 

salvation  of  his  soul.     The  one  can  talk  to  him 

^""''^1  ^''"^''    about  the  land  he  cultivates,  the  other  is  obliged 

and  Relt7tous  ^  ,  ,  ,.,,..       ,° 

Consolation  ^°  converse  or  heaven,  about  which  he  is  in  these 
days,  unfortunately,  little  interested.  I  say  un- 
fortunately, for  the  doctrine  of  a  future  life  is  not  only  a  conso- 
lation but  a  proper  means  of  government.  Is  not  religion  the 
only  power  that  can  uphold  social  laws  ?  France  has  recently 
vindicated  God.  When  religion  was  done  away  with,  the  Govern- 
ment was  forced  to  set  up  the  Terror  to  compel  the  enforcement 
of  the  laws;  but  it  was  only  human  terror,  and  it  passed  away. 
When  a  peasant  is  ill  and  nailed  to  a  sick-bed,  or  convales- 
cent, he  is  forced  to  listen  to  reason  and  argument;  and  he  will 
understand  both  if  presented  clearly.  That  was  the  thought 
that  made  a  doctor  of  me.  I  reckoned  with  my  peasantry  and 
for  them ;  I  gave  them  only  such  advice  as  would  be  certain  in 
its  effedts,  and  would  therefore  constrain  them  to  recognize  the 
soundness  of  my  views.  With  peasants  it  is  essential  to  be  in- 
fallible. Infallibility  was  the  making  of  Napoleon;  it  would 
have  made  a  god  of  him  if  the  universe  had  not  resounded  with 
his  fall  at  Waterloo.  If  Mohammed  was  able  to  create  a  reli- 
gion after  conquering  a  third  of  the  globe,  it  was  because  he 
concealed  from  the  world  the  spectacle  of  his  death. 

To  the  village   mayor  and    the  great  conqueror  the  same 
principle  applies;    the  nation  and   the  distrid;  are  of  the  same 

i6 


BOOK-SHELF 


flock;    the    breed  is  the  same.      I  was  rigorous  towards  those  I 
was  forced  to  help  with  money;    if  I   had  not  shown  firmness 
they  would  all  have  scoffed  at  me.      Peasants,  quite  as  often  as 
men  of  the  world,  end  by  making  light  of  those 
whom  they  cheat.     To  be  duped  is  to  be  weak;         „  ^''^"^^  ^,, 

.       ■'  111-  T    I  1  Lroverns  All 

strength  governs  all  thmgs.      1   have  never  de-  Thinzs. 

manded  a  penny  of  any  one  for  my  medical 
services,  unless  from  those  who  are  known  to  be  rich ;  but  I 
have  left  no  one  in  ignorance  of  the  proper  price  of  them.  I 
never  give  away  medicines  unless  the  sick  person  is  indigent. 
If  my  peasantry  do  not  pay  me,  they  at  least  know  the  amount 
of  their  debt;  sometimes  they  ease  their  consciences  by  bringing 
me  oats  for  my  horses,  or  wheat,  when  it  is  not  too  dear.  If 
the  miller  were  to  offer  me  only  a  few  eels  for  my  services,  I 
should  tell  him  he  was  generous  for  so  trifling  a  matter.  Such 
politeness  bears  fruits;  in  winter  he  will  give  me  a  few  sacks  of 
flour  for  the  poor.  People  have  hearts  if  we  don't  blight  them. 
I  have  come  to  think  more  of  good  and  less  of  evil  than  I 
used  to. 

It  is  not  enough  to  be  an  upright  man,  we  must  be  seen  to 
be  one.     Society  does  not  exist  on  moral  ideas  only;  to  last,  it 
requires   adiions  that  are  in  harmony  with  such 
ideas.     In   most   of  the  rural   districts,  out  of      j?  /■''■'^^  r 
every  hundred  families  whom  death  deprives  of  monies. 

their  head,  only  a  few,  gifted  with  lively  sensi- 
bility, preserve  a  remembrance  of  the  dead  for  any  length  of 
time ;  the  others  totally  forget  them  before  the  end  of  the  year. 
Is  not  such  forgetfulness  a  sore  thing  ?  Religion  is  the  heart  of 
a  people;  it  is  the  expression  of  their  feelings,  which  it  raises 
by  giving  them  an  objed:.  Without  a  God  visibly  worshiped, 
religion  would  not  exist,  and  human  laws  would  have  little  real 
vigor.  Though  the  conscience  belongs  to  God  alone,  the  body 
falls  under  the  social  law;  therefore,  is  it  not  the  beginning  of 
atheism  to  efface  the  outward  signs  of  religious  grief,  and  not  to 
exhibit  forcibly  to  the  eyes  of  children  who  cannot  yet  refledl  — 

17 


MY      FAVORITE 


indeed,  to  the  eyes  of  all  who  learn  by  example  —  the  duty  of 
obeying  laws  by  a  visible  submission  to  the  decrees  of  Provi- 
dence, who  afflidls  and  consoles,  and  gives  and  takes  away  the 
blessings  of  life?  I  confess  that  having  passed  through  my 
period  of  scoffing  and  scepticism,  I  have,  here  in  this  place, 
learned  to  understand  the  value  of  religious  ceremonies,  of  family 
solemnities,  and  the  importance  of  certain  usages  and  celebra- 
tions around  the  domestic  hearth.  The  base  of  all  society  must 
be  with  the  family.  There,  where  law  and  power  take  their 
rise,  obedience  should  be  taught.  Seen  in  all  their  consequences 
the  family  bond  and  paternal  authority  are  two  principles  which 
are  still  too  little  developed  in  our  new  legislative  system.  The 
family,  the  distridt,  and  the  department  represent  our  whole 
country.  Laws  should  therefore  be  based  on  those  three  great 
divisions.  In  my  opinion,  the  marriage  of  men  and  women,  the 
birth  of  children,  the  death  of  fathers,  cannot  be  surrounded 
with  too  many  observances.  That  which  makes  the  strength 
of  Catholicism,  that  which  has  rooted  it  so  firmly  in  the  man- 
ners and  morals  of  the  people,  is  precisely  the  splendor  by 
which  it  associates  itself  with  the  solemn  things  of  life,  and 
surrounds  them  with  ceremonies,  so  simple  and  appealing,  yet 
so  grand  whenever  the  priest  rises  to  the  height  of  his  mission, 
and  makes  his  office  accord  with  the  sublimity  of  Christian 
morality. 

Misers  have  no  belief  in  a  future  life;    the  present  is  their 

all  in  all.     This  thought  casts  a  terrible  light  upon  our  present 

epoch,  in  which,  far   more   than   at   any  former 

Le  eitta     opes      period,  money  swavs  the  laws  and  politics  and 

Dimmed  by  lerres-    ^  i  i         •        •  i        i  i     i 

trial  Pleaiures.      morals.      Institutions,  books,  men,  and  dogmas, 
all   conspire   to  undermine  a    belief  in  a  future 
life, —  a    belief   upon  which    the    social    edifice    has    rested    for 
eighteen  hundred  years. 

The  grave  as  a  means  of  transition  is  little  feared  in  our 
day.  The  future  which  once  opened  to  us  beyond  the  requiems, 
has  now  been  imported  into  the  present.     To  obtain  per  fas  et 

i8 


BOOK-SHELF 


nefas  a  terrestrial  paradise  of  luxury  and  earthly  enjoyment,  to 
harden  the  heart  and  macerate  the  body  for  the  sake  of  fleeting 
possessions,  as  the  martyrs  once  suffered  all  things  to  reach  eter- 
nal joys,  this  is  now  the  universal  thought — a  thought  written 
everywhere,  even  in  the  very  laws  which  ask  of  the  legislator, 
"What  do  you  pay?"  instead  of  asking  him,  "What  do  you 
think?"  When  this  doctrine  has  passed  down  from  the  bour- 
geoisie to  the  populace,  where  will  this  country  be? 

In  all  situations  women  have  more  cause  for  suffering  than 
men,  and  they  suffer  more.      Man  has  strength  and  the  power 
of  exercising  it;  he  a6ls,  moves,  thinks,  occupies 
himself;  he  looks  ahead  and  sees  consolation  in  ^^    -^  . 

the  future.      But  the  woman  stays  at  home;  she  Women 

is  always  face  to  face  with  the  grief  from  which 
nothing  distracts  her;  she  goes  down  to  the  depths  of  the  abyss 
which  yawns  before  her,  measures  it  and  often  fills  it  with  her 
tears  and   prayers.     To   feel,  to  love,  to  suffer,  to  devote  her- 
self,—  is  not  this  the  sum  of  woman's  life? 

Brillat-Savarin  defended  the  science  of  good  eating  from 
convidion ;  but  perhaps  he  has  not  sufficiently  insisted  on  the 
real  pleasure  a  man  finds  at  table.    Digestion, 
which   sets   to  work  the   forces    of   the   human  Gastric 

body,  produces  within  the  epicure  an  inward  tu-  Inebriation. 
mult  equivalent  to  the  highest  enjoyments  of 
love.  Such  a  vast  development  of  vital  energy  is  felt,  that  the 
brain  annuls  itself  in  the  interests  of  the  secondary  brain  which 
exists  in  the  diaphragm,  and  intoxication  ensues  from  the  very 
inertia  of  all  the  faculties.  The  boa-constrid:ors  gorged  with 
buffalo  are  found  so  drunk  that  they  will  let  themselves  be 
killed.  Is  there  a  man  over  forty  who  dares  to  go  to  work  after 
dinner?  And  for  this  reason  all  great  men  are  sober.  Conva- 
lescents recovering  from  serious  illness,  to  whom  nourishment  is 
carefully  doled  out,  have  often  observed  a  species  of  gastric  ine- 
briation   produced    by   a    single    chicken    wing.     The  virtuous 

19 


MY      FAVORITE 


Pons,  whose  enjoyments  were  concentrated  in  the  mechanism  of 

his  stomach,  was  otten  in  the  condition  of  such  convalescents; 

he  extraded  from  good  Hving  all  the  sensations 

''  it  was  capable  of  bestowing;  and  so  far  he  had 

Pons  obtained  them  daily.     No  one  dares  bid  farewell 

to  a  fixed  habit.      Many  a  suicide  has  stopped 

short  on   the  threshold    of  death,  as    he  remembered  the  cafe 

where  he  played  his  nightly  game  of  dominoes. 

That  certain  created  beings  should  have  the  power  of  fore- 
seeing events  in  the  germ  of  causes,  just  as  a  great  inventor  sees 
an  art  or  a  science  in  some  natural  phenomenon 

I  c    eer  unobserved    by   the    ordinary   mind,    is    by   no 

Sees  the  Future  in  (.  \  .  \  .  ■^     . 

the  Past  means  one  or  those  abnormal   exceptions  to  the 

order  of  things  that  excite  a  clamor;  it  is  simply 
the  working  of  an  obscure  natural  faculty,  which  is,  in  a  meas- 
ure, the  somnambulism  of  the  spirit.  This  proposition,  on  which 
every  method  of  deciphering  the  future  rests,  may  or  may  not 
be  called  absurd, —  the  faft  remains.  Observe  also  that  for  the 
Seer  to  predict  the  general  events  of  the  future  is  no  greater  ex- 
hibition of  power  than  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the  past.  In  the 
creed  of  the  incredulous  the  past  and  the  future  are  alike  undis- 
coverable.  If  past  events  have  left  their  traces,  it  is  reasonable 
to  infer  that  coming  events  have  their  roots.  Whenever  a 
soothsayer  tells  you,  minutely,  fadls  of  your  past  life  known  to 
yourself  alone,  he  can  surely  tell  you  the  events  which  existing 
causes  will  produce.  The  moral  world  is  cut  out,  so  to  speak, 
on  the  pattern  of  the  natural  world;  the  same  efFefts  will  be 
found  everywhere,  with  the  differences  proper  to  varied  environ- 
ments. Thus,  just  as  the  body  is  actually  projedted  upon  the 
atmosphere,  and  leaves  within  it  the  spectre  which  the  daguer- 
reotype seizes,  so  ideas,  real  and  potential  creations,  imprint 
themselves  upon  what  we  must  call  the  atmosphere  of  the  spirit- 
ual world,  produce  effects  upon  it,  remain  there  spe6trally  (it  is 
necessary  to  coin  words  to  express  these  unnamed  phenomena); 
and  hence,  certain  created  beings  endowed  with  rare  faculties  can 

20 


BOOK-SHELF 


clearly  perceive  these  forms,  or  these  tracks  of  ideas.     As  to  the 
means  employed  in  such  visions,  the  marvel  of  them  is  readily 
explained  as  soon   as   the  hand  of  the  enquirer 
has  arranged  the  objeds   by  the  aid  of  which  he  Man  Is  a 

is  to  be  shown  the  incidents  of  his  life.  All  Microcosm. 
things  are  linked  together  in  the  phenomenal 
world.  Every  motion  springs  from  a  cause;  every  cause  is  a 
part  of  the  Whole;  consequently  the  Whole  exists  in  the  slight- 
est motion.  Rabelais,  the  greatest  mind  in  the  humanity  of 
modern  times,  a  man  who  combined  within  himself  Pythagoras, 
Hippocrates,  Aristophanes,  and  Dante — declared  three  centu- 
ries ago  that  man  was  a  microcosm ;  Swedenborg,  the  great 
Swedish  prophet,  said  that  the  earth  was  man ;  the  prophet  and 
the  precursor  of  scepticism  met  upon  the  ground  of  this  great- 
est of  all  formulas.  All  things  are  predestined  and  foreknown 
in  the  life  of  man  as  in  the  life  of  his  planet.  The  smallest 
chances  and  changes,  even  the  mists  futile  and  insignificant,  are 
under  a  law.  Consequently,  great  events,  great  purposes,  great 
thoughts,  have  their  necessary  reflex  in  lesser  thoughts,  lesser 
adions;  and  this  law  is  so  strid,  that  if  some  conspirator  were 
to  shuffle  and  cut  a  pack  of  cards,  he  could  write,  in  so  doing, 
the  secrets  of  his  conspiracy  to  be  read  by  the  Seer,  otherwise 
called  Bohemian,  gypsy,  fortune-teller,  charlatan,  etc. 

The  splendid  gifts  which  make  a  Seer  are  usually  found 
among  those  whom  Society  calls  "common  or  unclean."  These 
brutish  beings  are  the  chosen  vessels  in  whom  God  has  poured 
the  elixirs  which  amaze  humanity.  Such  beings  have  furnished 
the  prophets,  the  St.  Peters,  the  hermits  of  history.  Whenever 
thought  can  be  kept  to  its  integrity,  rounded  as  it  were  within 
itself,  when  it  is  not  frittered  in  conversation,  or  spent  in 
schemes,  in  literary  work,  in  the  speculation  of  science,  in  admin- 
istrative eflfort,  in  the  conceptions  of  an  inventor,  in  the  services 
of  war,  it  is  apt  to  burn  with  intense  fires  of  prodigious  intensity, 
just  as  the  uncut  diamond  holds  its  rays  within  itself.  Let  the 
occasion  come,  and  at  once  this  spiritual  force  breaks  out ;  it  has 
wings  to  waft  it  over  space,  the  eye  divine  that  sees  the  all  of 

21 


MY      FAVORITE 


existence;  yesterday  it  was  carbon;  tomorrow,  under  the  flow  of 

the   mysterious  fluid  which   pervades  it,  it  is  a  diamond  of  the 

purest  water.      Men  of  superior  mind,  with  all 

Fortune-tellers      ^y^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^j^^jj.  intelled  well  wom,  can  never 

Generally  l?norant,  .  ,  111 

if  Inspired  exercise  these  supreme  powers  unless  through 
miracles,  which  God  occasionally  permits.  Thus 
it  happens  that  necromancers  and  fortune-tellers,  both  male  and 
female,  are  nearly  always  mendicants  with  untutored  minds, 
beings  apparently  of  coarse  fibre,  pebbles  rolled  over  and  over 
by  the  torrents  of  poverty,  ground  down  in  the  ruts  of  existence, 
where  they  have  exhausted  only  their  physical  endurance. 

The  prophet,  the  seer,  is  Martin  the  laborer,  who  made 
Louis  XVIII  tremble  as  he  told  him  a  secret  known  only  to 
the  king;  it  is  a  Mademoiselle  Lenormand,  a  cook  like  Madame 
Fontaine,  some  half-idiotic  negro  woman,  some  herdsman  living 
among  his  horned  beasts,  a  fakir  sitting  on  the  bank  of  a 
pagoda,  who,  by  killing  the  flesh,  has  won  for  the  spirit  the 
untold  powers  of  somnambulic  faculties.  It  is  in  Asia  that  the 
heroes  of  occult  science   have  been  found  throughout  all  time. 

It  often  happens  that  persons  gifted  with  these  powers  who 
in  their  ordinary  lives  remain  their  ordinary  selves, —  for  they 
fulfil  as  it  were  the  same  physical  and  chemical  functions  as  the 
conducting  medium  of  an  eledlric  current,  sometimes  mere  inert 
metal,  then  again  the  channel  of  mysterious  fluids, —  these 
people  sinking  back  into  their  natural  condition,  betake  them- 
selves to  practises  and  schemes  which  bring  them  into  the  police 
courts;  and  even,  as  in  the  case  of  the  famous  Balthazar,  to 
prison  or  the  galleys. 

A  proof  of  the  enormous  power  which  necromancy  wields 
over  the  masses  is  that  the  life  or  death  of  a  poor  musician 
depended  on  the  horoscope  which  Madame  Fontaine  was  about 
to  draw  for  Madame  Cibot. 


22 


BOOK-SHELF 

BOSWELL'S    JOHNSON 


Johnson  was  fifty-four  years  old  when  in  1763  Boswell  was 
introduced  to  him  at  that  memorable  interview  in  Tom  Davies's 
back  parlor.     The  acquaintance  soon  grew  into 
friendship,  and    lasted   without    diminution   till    „.      fl""^.  ^    .  , 

ohnson  s    death   m    1704.      let    dunng    these  Johnson. 

twenty-one  years,  as  Croker  has  established  by 
an  elaborate  calculation,  the  friends  were  together  only  two  hun- 
dred and  seventy-six  days  including  the  time  spent  on  the  tour 
in  Scotland,  only  one  hundred  and  eighty  as  recorded  in  the 
biography.  Boswell's  plan  therefore  and  the  scale  on  which  he 
wrought  it  necessitated  many  gaps  which  had  to  be  filled  up 
somehow.  They  are  for  the  most  part  surprisingly  well  filled; 
for  not  only  did  he  spare  himself  no  labor  in  colledling  materials 
(even,  as  he  boasts,  to  running  half  over  London  to  fix  a  date 
correctly ),  but  he  was  scarcely  less  dexterous  in  utilizing  the 
information  and  the  wit  of  others  than  he  was  in  employing  his 
own.  He  frequently  laments  his  delay  in  writing  down  his 
friend's  conversation  while  it  was  still  fresh  in  his  memory, 
whereby  its  original  flavor  was  too  often  impaired  if  not  wholly 
lost.  Yet  he  had  so  soaked  his  mind  in  Johnson  that  to  the 
baldest  and  most  meagre  reports  with  which  his  friends  could 
furnish  him  he  was  able  to  give  something  of 

the  natural  touch.      But  his  work  had  been  so      -  ^/'.^/^^fi. 
1  jiji  11  ••  11-  ¥  Utihztng  Infor- 

long    delayed  that  many  had  anticipated    him;  mation. 

Hawkins  (a  dull  fellow,  no  doubt,  though  his 

book  is  not  quite  the  worthless  thing  that,  following  Boswell's 

lead,  it    has    been   the  fashion  to    represent    it),  Mrs.  Thrale, 

Strahan,  Craddock  and  others.     They  have  perished  or  survive 

only  under  his  shadow ;    but    at    the  time    they  did    in    some 

measure  interfere  with  him.      He  borrowed  from  them  as  much 

as  he  dared,  but  the  law  of  copyright,  which  none  of  them  were 

23 


MY      FAVORITE 


disposed  to  waive  In  favor  of  one  who  so  jealously  guarded  his 
own  interests,  made  this  comparatively  little.  Sometimes,  too, 
Johnson  would  not  be  in  the  humor  for  talking,  especially  when 
the  pair  were  alone.  *'  I  constantly  watched,"  says  Boswell, 
"every  dawning  of  communication  from  that  great  and  illumi- 
nated mind;"  but  the  dawning  was  apt  occasionally  to  broaden 
into  a  tempestuous  day.  "Sir,  you  have  only  two  topics, 
yourself  and  me;  I  am  sick  of  both."  When  the  great  mind 
was  in  that  temper,  even  Boswell's  unwearied  assiduity  and 
obstetric  skill  were  baffled.  Another  of  his  favorite  methods 
of  extracting  illumination  was  to  talk  at  the  Doctor,  or  about 
him,  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person,  and  this  too  would 
sometimes  hang  fire.  "  Never  speak  of  a  man  in  his  pres- 
ence," he  was  once  told;  "it  is  always  indelicate,  and  may  be 
offensive."  Nor  was  his  somewhat  brusque  use  of  the  Socratic 
method  always  countenanced ;  he  would  not  seldom  be  re- 
minded that  "  Questioning  is  not  the  mode  of  conversation  among 
gentlemen." 

Lord  Chesterfield,  to  whom  Johnson  had  paid  the  high 
compliment  of  addressing  to  his  Lordship  the  "Plan"  of  his 
Dictionary,  had  behaved  to  him  in  such  a  manner  as  to  excite 
his  contempt  and  indignation.  The  world  has  been  for  many 
years  amused  with  a  story  confidently  told,  and  as  confidently 
repeated  with  additional  circumstances,  that  a  sudden  disgust  was 
taken  by  Johnson  upon  occasion  of  his  having  been  one  day 
kept  long  in  waiting  in  his  Lordship's  ante-chamber,  for  which 
the  reason  assigned  was,  that  he  had  company  with  him;  and 
that,  at  last,  when  the  door  opened,  out  walked 
Johnson^s^D.sgust    q^^^^^   Gibber;    and  that  Johnson  was  so  vio- 

Cbesterfield  lently  provoked  when  he  found  for  whom  he 
had  been  so  long  excluded,  that  he  went  away 
in  a  passion,  and  never  would  return.  I  remember  having  men- 
tioned this  story  to  George  Lord  Lyttleton,  who  told  me  he 
was  very  intimate  with  Lord  Chesterfield;  and  holding  it  as  a 
well-known  truth,  defended  Lord  Chesterfield  by  saying  that, 

24 


BOOK-SHELF 


"  Gibber,  who  had  been  introduced  famiharly  by  the  back  stairs, 
had  probably  not  been  there  above  ten  minutes."  It  may  seem 
strange  even  to  entertain  a  doubt  concerning  a  story  so  long 
and  so  widely  current,  and  thus  implicitly  adopted,  if  not  sanc- 
tioned, by  the  authority  which  I  have  mentioned;  but  Johnson 
himself  assured  me  that  there  was  not  the  least  foundation 
for  it. 

He  told  me  that  there  never  was  any  particular  inci- 
dent which  produced  a  quarrel  between  Lord  Chesterfield 
and  him;  but  that  his  Lordship's  continued  negled  was  the 
reason  why  he  resolved  to  have  no  connection  with  him.  The 
following  is  an  extrad:  from  his  famous  letter  to  Lord  Chester- 
field:— 

"  Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door;  during 
which  time   I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work 
through    difficulties,  of  which    it    is    useless   to        His  Letter  to 
complain,  and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the        Chesterfield. 
verge   of   publication,   without    one    adt   of  as- 
sistance, one  word  of  encouragement,  or   one   smile  of  favor. 
Such   treatment   I   did   not   exped,   for   I    never   had  a   patron 
before. 

"  The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

"Is  not  a  patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern 
on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has 
reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help?  The  notice  which 
you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early, 
had  it  been  kind,  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent, 
and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary  and  cannot  impart  it;  till 
I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it. 

"  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obli- 
gations where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be  unwilling 
that  the  Public  should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  Patron, 
which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself." 


25 


MY      FAVORITE 


■A-fflinf  A  'fnf  A.  ^  fa-jfg  H  'inf /^  t^  ^ 


Johnson  having  now  explicitly  avowed  his  opinion  of  Lord 

Chesterfield  did  not  refrain  from  expressing  himself  concerning 

that    nobleman    with   pointed    freedom:    "This 

„  .  -        man,"   said    he,  "  I    thought    had    been   a   lord 

opinion  of  .,  Tz-ii'  1 

Him  among  wits,  but   1  find  he  is  only  a  wit  among 

lords." 

And  when  his  letters  to  his  natural  son  were  published,  he 
observed  that  "  they  teach  the  morals  of  a  courtezan  and  the 
manners  of  a  dancing-master." 

"Idleness  is  a  disease  which   must  be  combatted;    but    I 

would  not  advise  a  rigid  adherence  to  a  particular  plan  of  study. 

I   myself  have  never  persisted  in  any  plan  for 

,,         „     .       two  days  together.     A  man  ought  to  read  just 
How  to  Read.  .,.■'.    °   ,       ,,.        r         ii  i"' 

as  inclination  leads  him,  tor  what  he  reads  as  a 

task  will  do  him  little  good.  A  young  man 
should  read  five  hours  a  day,  and  so  may  acquire  a  great  deal  of 
knowledge."  To  a  man  of  vigorous  intelleft  and  ardent  curi- 
osity like  his  own,  reading  without  a  regular  aim  may  be  bene- 
ficial; though  even  such  a  man  must  submit  to  it,  if  he  would 
attain  a  full  understanding  of  any  of  the  sciences. 

Johnson  was  much  attached  to  London;  he  observed  that  a 

man  stored  his  mind  better  there  than  anywhere  else;  and  that  in 

remote  situations  a  man's  body  might  be  feasted, 

r ...  "  ^  but  his  mind  was  starved,  and  his  faculties  apt  to 

Liking  for  -  '  .  .  ^ 

London.  degenerate  rrom  want   or    exercise  and   compe- 

tition. "No  place,"  he  said,  "cured  a  man's 
vanity  or  arrogance  so  well  as  London;  for  no  man  was  either 
great  or  good  per  se  until  compared  with  others  not  so  good 
or  great." 

He  said  "  Goldsmith  should  not  be  forever  attempting  to 
shine  in  conversation;  he  has  not  the  temper  for  it,  he  is  so 
much  mortified  when  he  fails.  Sir,  a  game  of  jokes  is  composed 
partly  of  skill,  partly  of  chance  ;  a  man  may  be  beat  at  times  by 

26 


BOOK-SHELF 


one  who  has  not  a  tenth  part  of  his  wit.  Now  Goldsmith's 
putting  himself  against  another  is  like  a  man  laying  a  hundred 
to  one  who  cannot  spare  the   hundred.      It  is  ,  „,    ,, 

^1  »  LM  A  u       IJ  4.     Goldsmith  Should 

not  worth  a  mans  while.  A  man  should  not  ^^, ^,,^^p,,,shine 
lay  a  hundred  to  one  unless  he  can  easily  spare  ^^  Conversation. 
it,  though  he  has  a  hundred  chances  for  him; 
he  cannot  but  get  a  guinea,  and  he  may  lose  a  hundred.  Gold- 
smith is  in  this  state.  When  he  contends,  if  he  gets  the  better, 
it  is  a  very  little  addition  to  a  man  of  his  literary  reputation ;  if 
he  does  not  get  the  better,  he  is  miserably  vexed." 

A  young  lady  who  had  married  a  man  much  her  inferior  in 
rank,  being  mentioned,  a  question  arose  how  a  woman's  relations 
should  behave  to  her  in  such  a  situation;  and, 
while  I  recapitulated  the   debate,  and  recoiled:        _  "„  P^"^"" 

1  •*^i  1/1  •  rivT  °f  lll-^siorted 

what  has  since  happened  (the  marriage  or  Mrs.  Marriages. 
Thrale  to  Piozzi),  I  cannot  but  be  struck  in  a 
manner  that  delicacy  forbids  me  to  express.  While  I  contended 
that  she  ought  to  be  treated  with  an  inflexible  steadiness  of  dis- 
pleasure, Mrs.  Thrale  was  all  for  mildness  and  forgiveness,  and 
according  to  the  vulgar  phrase,  "making  the  best  of  a  bad 
bargain." 

Johnson:  "Madam,  we  must  distinguish.  Were  I  a  man 
of  rank,  1  would  not  let  a  daughter  starve  who  had  made  a  mean 
marriage;  but  having  voluntarily  degraded  herself  from  the  sta- 
tion which  she  was  originally  entitled  to  hold,  I  would  support 
her  only  in  that  which  she  herself  had  chosen,  and  would  not 
put  her  on  a  level  with  my  other  daughters.  You  are  to  con- 
sider, Madam,  that  it  is  our  duty  to  maintain  the  subordination 
of  civilized  society;  and  when  there  is  a  gross  and  shameful 
deviation  from  rank,  it  should  be  punished  so  as  to  deter  others 
from  the  same  perversion." 

Talking  of  melancholy,  he  said:  "Some  men,  and  very 
thinking  men,  too,  have  not  those  vexing  thoughts.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  is   the  same  all   the  year  round.      Beauclerk,  except 

27 


MY      FAVORITE 


when  ill    or   in    pain,    is  the    same.      But   I    believe   that    most 

men    have   them   in   the  degree   in  which    they    are    capable    of 

having    them.      If   I    were   in    the   country   and 

M. W./V  Sbou/J    ^^j.^   distressed   by   that  malady,  I   would  force 

Not  be  Diverted  .^  .  \        .  ,      •' '  .  t     i-  i 

by  Dririkirtp.        niyscli  to  take  a  book;  and  every  time   1   did 

it   I    should    find    it    the    easier.      Melancholy, 

indeed,  should  be  diverted  by  every  means  but  drinking." 

Many  things  which  are  false  are  transmitted  from  book  to 
book,  and  gain  credit  in  the  world.  One  of  these  is  the  cry 
against  the  evil  of  luxury.  Now  the  truth  is  that  luxury  pro- 
duces much  good.  Take  the  luxury  of  buildings  in  London. 
Does  it  not  produce  real  advantage  in  the  conveniency  and  ele- 
gance of  accommodation,  and  this  all  from  the  exertion  of  in- 
dustry ?  People  will  tell  you,  with  a  melancholy  face,  how  many 
builders  are  in  jail.  It  is  plain  they  are  in  jail,  not  for  building, 
for  rents  are  not  fallen.  A  man  gives  half  a  guinea  for  a  dish 
of  green  peas.  How  much  gardening  does  this  occasion?  How 
many  laborers  does  the  competition  to  have  such  things  early 
in  the  market  keep  in  employment?  You  will 
Luxury  Produces    hear  it  said   very  gravely,  "Why  was  not  the 

Good.  half-guineas  thus  spent  in  luxury  given  to   the 

poor?  To  how  many  might  it  not  have  afforded 
a  good  meal!"  Alas!  has  it  not  gone  to  the  industrious  poor, 
whom  it  is  better  to  support  than  the  idle  poor?  You  are  much 
surer  that  you  are  doing  good  when  you  pay  money  to  those 
who  work,  as  the  recompense  of  their  labor,  than  when  you  give 
money  merely  in  charity.  Suppose  the  ancient  luxury  of  a  dish 
of  peacocks'  brains  were  to  be  revived,  how  many  carcasses  would 
be  left  to  the  poor  at  a  cheap  rate?  And  as  to  the  rout  that  is 
made  about  people  who  are  ruined  by  extravagance,  it  is  no  mat- 
ter to  the  nation  that  some  individuals  suffer. 

When  so  much  general  productive  exertion  is  the  conse- 
quence of  luxury,  the  nation  does  not  care  though  there  are 
debtors  in  jail;  nay,  they  would  not  care  though  their  creditors 
were  there  too. 

28 


BOOK-SHELF 


We  talked  of  employment  being  absolutely   necessary   to 
preserve  the  mind  from  wearying  and  growing  fretful,  especially 
in   those  who  have   a  tendency  to  melancholy; 
and   I   mentioned  to  him  a  saying  which  some-  pteven^t"^ 

body  had  related  of  an  American  savage,  who,         Fretfulness. 
when  an   European  was  expatiating  on    all  the 
advantages  of  money,  put    this    question:    "Will   it    purchase 
occupation?  " 

Johnson:  "Depend  upon  it.  Sir,  this  saying  is  too  refined 
for  a  savage.  And,  Sir,  money  will  purchase  occupation;  it  will 
purchase  all  the  conveniences  of  life;  it  will  purchase  variety  of 
company;  it  will  purchase  all  sorts  of  entertainment." 

We  talked  of  drinking  wine.  Johnson:  "I  require  wine 
only  when  I  am  alone.  1  have  then  often  wished  for  it,  and 
often  taken  it."  Spottiswoode:  "What,  by  way  of  a  com- 
panion. Sir?"  Johnson:  "To  get  rid  of  myself,  to  send  my- 
self away.  Wine  gives  great  pleasure,  and  every  pleasure  is  of 
itself  a  good.  It  is  a  good,  unless  counterbalanced  by  evil.  A 
man  may  have  a  strong  reason  not  to  drink  wine,  and  that  may 
be  greater  than  the  pleasure.  Wine  makes  a  man  better  pleased 
with  himself  I  do  not  say  that  it  makes  him  more  pleasing  to 
others.     Sometimes  it  does.      But  the  danger  is 

that  while  a  man  grows  better  pleased  with  him-       ,^.      ^"\. 

=>      .  ,  *,        .  ,  (jtives  a  Man 

self,  he  may  be  growmg  less  pleasmg  to  others.  Nothing. 

Wine  gives  a  man  nothing.  It  neither  gives 
him  knowledge  nor  wit;  it  only  animates  a  man,  and  enables 
him  to  bring  out  what  a  dread  of  the  company  has  repressed. 
It  only  puts  in  motion  what  has  been  locked  up  in  frost. 
But  this  may  be  good,  or  it  may  be  bad."  Spottiswoode: 
"So,  Sir,  wine  is  a  key  which  opens  a  box;  but  this  box 
may  be  either  full  or  empty?"  Johnson:  "Nay,  Sir,  con- 
versation is  the  key :  wine  is  a  picklock  which  forces  open  the 
box  and  injures  it.  A  man  should  cultivate  his  mind  so  as  to 
have  that  confidence  and  readiness  without  wine,  which  wine 
gives."      Boswell:  "The  great    difficulty  of  resisting  wine  is 

29 


MY      FAVORITE 


T^     M 


from  benevolence  —  tor  instance,  a  good,  worthy  man  asks 
you  to  taste  his  wine,  which  he  has  had  twenty  years  in  his 
cellar." 

Johnson:  "Sir,  all  this  notion  about  benevolence  arises 
from  a  man's  imagining  himself  to  be  of  more  importance  to 
others  than  he  really  is.  They  don't  care  a  farthing  whether  he 
drinks  wine  or  not."  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds:  "Yes,  they  do  for 
the  time."  Johnson:  "For  the  time!  If  they  care  this  minute 
they  forget  it  the  next.  And  as  for  the  good,  worthy  man; 
how  do  you  know  he  is  good  and  worthy?  No  good,  worthy 
man  will  insist  upon  another  man's  drinking  wine.  As  to  the 
wine  twenty  years  in  the  cellar, —  of  ten  men,  three  say  this 
merely  because  they  must  say  something;  three  are  telling  a  lie 
when  they  say  they  have  had  the  wine  twenty  years;  three  would 
rather  save  the  wine;  one,  perhaps,  cares  I  allow  it  is  something 
to  please  one's  company;  and  people  are  always  pleased  with 
those  who  partake  pleasure  with  them.  But  after  a  man  has 
brought  himself  to  relinquish  the  great  personal  pleasure  which 
arises  from  drinking  wine,  any  other  consideration  is  a  trifle. 
To  please  others  by  drinking  wine  is  something  only,  if  there 
be  nothing  against  it.  I  should,  however,  be  sorry  to  offend 
worthv  men : 

"  '  Curst  be  the  verse,  how  well  so  e'er  it  flow. 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe.'  " 

Boswell:  "Curst  be  the  springs  the  water.''  Johnson:  "But 
let  us  consider  what  a  sad  thing  it  would  be  if  we  were  obliged 
to  drink  or  do  anything  else  that  may  happen  to  be  agreeable 
to  the  company  where  we  are." 

Langton  :  "  By  the  same  rule  you  must  join  with  a  gang 
of  cut-purses."  Johnson:  "Yes,  Sir;  but  we  must  do  justice 
to  wine,  we  must  allow  it  the  power  it  possesses.  To  make  a 
man  pleased  with  himself,  let  me  tell  you,  is  doing  a  very  great 
thing." 


30 


BOOK-SHELF 


His  friend,  Dr.  Lawrence,  having  now  suffered  the  greatest 
affliction  to  which  a  man  is  liable,  and  which  Johnson  himself 
had  felt  in  the  most  severe  manner;    Johnson 
wrote  to  him  in  an  admirable  strain  of  sympathy  Letters  of 

and  pious  consolation.  Condolence. 

Dear  Sir: 

At  a  time  when  all  your  friends  ought  to  show  their  kind- 
ness, and  with  a  charad:er  which  ought  to  make  all  that  know 
you  your  friends,  you  may  wonder  that  you  have  yet  heard 
nothing  from  me. 

I  have  been  hindered  by  a  vexatious  and  incessant  cough, 
for  which  within  these  ten  days  I  have  been  bled  once,  fasted 
four  or  five  times,  taken  physick  five  times,  and  opiates,  I  think 
six.     This  day  it  seems  to  remit. 

The  loss,  dear  Sir,  which  you  have  lately  suifered  I  felt 
many  years  ago,  and  know,  therefore,  how  much  has  been 
taken  from  you,  and  how  little  help  can  be  had  from  con- 
solation. He  that  outlives  a  wife,  whom  he  has  long  loved, 
sees  himself  disjoined  from  the  only  mind  that  has  the  same 
hopes  and  fears  and  interest;  from  the  only  companion 
with  whom  he  has  shared  much  good  or  evil;  and  with 
whom  he  could  set  his  mind  at  liberty  to  retrace  the  past 
or  anticipate  the  future.  The  continuity  of  being  is  lacerated; 
the  settled  course  of  sentiment  and  aftion  is  stopped;  and 
life  stands  suspended  and  motionless,  till  it  is  driven  by  ex- 
ternal causes  into  a  new  channel.  But  the  time  of  suspense  is 
dreadful. 

Our  first  recourse  in  this  distressed  solitude  is,  perhaps,  for 
want  of  habitual  piety,  to  a  gloomy  acquiescence  in  necessity. 
Of  two  mortal  beings,  one  must  lose  the  other; 
but  surely  there  is  a  higher  and  better  comfort  Letters  of 

to  be  drawn  from  the  consideration  of  that  Provi-         Condolence. 
dence  which  watches  over  all,  and  a  belief  that 
the  living  and  the  dead  are  equally  in  the  hands  of  God,  who 
will  reunite  those  whom  he  has  separated,  or  who  sees  that  it  is 

31 


MY      FAVORITE 


best  not  to  reunite.      1  am,  dear  Sir,  your  most  afFedionate  and 
most  humble  servant, 

Sam.  Johnson. 
Jan.  20,  1780. 

Letter  written  to  Boswell  on  his  father's  death. 

Dear  Sir: 

I  have  struggled  through  this  year  with  so  much  infirmity 
of  body  and  such  strong  impressions  of  the  fragility  of  life,  that 
death,  whenever  it  appears,  fills  me  with  melancholy;  and  I  can- 
not hear,  without  emotion,  of  the  removal  of  any  one  whom  I 
have  known,  into  another  state. 

Your  father's  death  had  every  circumstance  that  could 
enable  you  to  bear  it;  it  was  at  a  mature  age,  and  it  was 
expeded;  and  as  his  general  life  had  been  pious,  his  thoughts 
had  doubtless  for  many  years  past  been  turned  upon  eternity. 

That  you  did  not  find  him  sensible  must  doubtless  grieve 
you;  his  disposition  towards  you  was  undoubtedly  that  of  a 
kind  though  not  of  a  fond  father.  Kindness,  at  least  ad:ual,  is 
in  our  power,  but  fondness  is  not;  and  if  by  negligence  or  impru- 
dence you  had  extinguished  his  fondness,  he  could  not  at 
will  rekindle  it.  Nothing  then  remained  between  you  but 
mutual   forgiveness    of  each  other's  faults,  and 

Advice  to  Boswell    ^,^^^^1    desire    of   each    other's    happiness.       I 
Oft  his  •  . 

Father's  Death.  ^^^^^  '°"g  ^°  know  his  final  disposition  of  his 
fortune. 
You,  dear  Sir,  have  now  a  new  station,  and  have  there- 
fore new  cares  and  new  employments.  Life,  as  Cowley  seems 
to  say,  ought  to  resemble  a  well-ordered  poem,  of  which 
one  rule,  generally  received,  is  that  the  exordium  should  be 
simple,  and  should  promise  little.  Begin  your  course  of  life 
with  the  least  show,  and  the  least  expense  possible;  you  may  at 
pleasure  increase  both,  but  you  cannot  easily  diminish  them. 
Do  not  think  your  estate  your  own,  while  any  man  can  call 
upon   you   for   money   which  you   cannot  pay;  therefore,  begin 

32 


BOOK-SHELF 


with  timorous  parsimony.      Let  your  first  care  be  not  to  be  in 
any  man's  debt. 

When  the  thoughts  are  extended  to  a  future  state,  the 
present  Hfe  seems  hardly  worthy  of  all  those  principles  of  con- 
dud:  and  maxims  of  prudence  which  one  generation  of  men  has 
transmitted  to  another;  but  upon  a  closer  view,  when  it  is  per- 
ceived how  much  evil  is  produced  and  how  much  good  is 
impeded  by  embarrassment  and  distress,  and  how  little  room 
the  expedients  of  poverty  leave  for  the  exercise  of  virtue,  it 
grows  manifest  that  the  boundless  importance  of  the  next  life 
enforces  some  attention  to  the  interest  of  this. 

Be  kind  to  the  old  servants,  and  secure  the  kindness  of  the 
agents  and  fadlors;  do  not  disgust  them  by  asperity  or  unwel- 
come gaiety  or  apparent  suspicion.  From  them  you  must  learn 
the  real  state  of  your  affairs,  the  characters  of  your  tenants,  and 
the  value  of  your  lands. 

Make  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Boswell;  I  think  her  ex- 
pectations from  air  and  exercise  are  the  best  that  she  can  form. 
I  hope  that  she  will  live  long  and  happily.  I  forgot  whether 
I  told  you  that  Rasay  has  been  here;  we  dined  cheerfully 
together. 

I  entertained  lately  a  young  gentleman  from  Corrichata- 
chin.  I  received  your  letters  only  this  morning.  I  am,  dear 
Sir,  Yours,  etc., 

Sam.  Johnson. 
London,  Sept.  7,  1782. 

His  generous  humanity  to  the  miserable  was  almost  beyond 
example.    The  following  instance  is  well  attested:  Coming  home 
late  one  night,  he  found  a  poor  woman  lying  in 
the  street,  so  much  exhausted  that  she  could  not       His  Generous 
walk;   he  took  her  upon  his  back  and  carried         Humanity. 
her  to  his  house,  where  he  discovered  that  she 
was  one  of  those  wretched  females  who  had  fallen  into  the  lowest 
state  of  vice,  poverty  and  disease.      Instead  of  harshly  upbraid- 
ing her,  he  had  her  taken  care  of  with  all  tenderness  for  a  long 

33 


MY      FAVORITE 


time,  at  a  considerable  expense,  till  she  was  restored  to  health, 
and  endeavored  to  put  her  into  a  virtuous  way  of  living. 

To  one  who  said  in  his  presence,  "he  had  no  notion  of 
people  being  in  earnest  in  their  good  professions,  whose  pradise 
was  not  suitable  to  them,"  he  gave  this  reprimand:  "Sir,  are  you 
so  grosslv  ignorant  of  human  nature  as  not  to  know  that  a  man 
may  be  very  sincere  in  good  principles,  without  having  good 
pradise?" 

The  Dodor,  from  the  time  that  he  was  certain  that  his 
death  was  near,  appeared  to  be  perfectly  resigned,  was  seldom  or 
never  fretful  or  out  of  temper,  and  often  said  to  his  faithful  ser- 
vant, who  gave  me  this  account,  "Attend,  Francis,  to  the  salva- 
tion of  your  soul,  which  is  the  objed  of  greatest  importance." 

He  also  explained  to  him  passages  in  the  Scripture,  and 
seemed  to  have  pleasure  in  talking  upon  religious  subjeds. 

On  Monday,  the  13th  of  December,  the  day  on  which  he 

died,  a    Miss   Morris,  daughter  to  a   particular  friend    of  his, 

called,  and  said  to   Francis,  that  she  begged  to 

„     J    '\  r         be  permitted  to  see  the  Do6tor,  that  she  might 

Death  and  Last  '       ,  ,  .  •         1  1  •      1  1        • 

Hoards.  earnestly  request  him  to  give  her  his   blessing. 

Francis  went  into  his  room,  followed  by  the 
young  lady,  and  delivered  the  message.  The  Doctor  turned 
himself  in  the  bed  and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  my  dear !  "  These 
were  the  last  words  he  spoke.  His  difficulty  of  breathing 
increased  until  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  Mr. 
Barber  and  Mrs.  Desmoulins,  who  were  sitting  in  the  room, 
observing  that  the  noise  he  made  in  breathing  had  ceased,  went 
to  the  bed,  and  found  he  was  dead. 

When  it  is  considered  that,  "amidst  sickness  and  sorrow," 
he  exerted  his  faculties  in  so  many  works  for  the  benefit  of  man- 
kind, and  particularly  that  he  achieved  the  great  and  admirable 
Dictionary  of  our  language,  we  must  be  astonished  at  his  reso- 
lution. The  solemn  text,  "Of  him  to  whom  much  is  given, 
much  will  be  required,"  seems  to  have  been  ever  present  in  his 

34 


BOOK-SHELF 


mind,  in  a  rigorous  sense,  and  to  have  made  him  dissatisfied  with 
his  labors  and  ads  of  goodness,  however  comparatively  great;  so 
that  the  unavoidable  consciousness  of  his  superi- 
ority was,  in  that  resped,  a  cause  of  disquiet,  h^  G^'^t^M^  \ 
He  suffered  so  much  from  this,  and  from  the  Restonubility. 
gloom  which  perpetually  haunted  him  and  made 
solitude  frightful,  that  it  may  be  said  of  him,  "If  in  this  life 
only  he  had  hope,  he  was  of  all  men  most  miserable."  He 
loved  praise  when  it  was  brought  to  him ;  but  was  too  proud  to 
seek  for  it.  He  was  somewhat  susceptible  of  flattery.  As  he 
was  general  and  unconfined  in  his  studies,  he  cannot  be  consid- 
ered as  master  of  any  one  particular  science;  but  he  had  accum- 
ulated a  vast  and  various  colledion  of  learning  and  knowledge, 
which  was  so  arranged  in  his  mind,  as  to  be  ever  in  readiness  to  be 
brought  forth.  But  his  superiority  over  other  learned  men  con- 
sisted chiefly  in  what  may  be  called  the  art  of  thinking,  the  art 
of  using  his  mind:  a  certain  continual  power  of  seizing  the  use- 
ful substance  of  all  that  he  knew,  and  exhibiting  it  in  a  clear 
and  forcible  manner;  so  that  knowledge,  which  we  often  see  to 
be  no  better  than  lumber  in  men  of  dull  understanding,  was  in 
him  true,  evident  and  adual  wisdom.  His  moral  precepts  are 
practical;  for  they  are  drawn  from  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
human  nature.  His  maxims  carry  convidion;  for  they  are 
founded  on  the  basis  of  common  sense,  and  a  very  attentive  and 
minute  survey  of  real  life.  His  mind  was  so 
full  of  imagery  that  he  might  have  been  perpet-  *^  Moral 

ually  a  poet;  yet  it  is  remarkable  that  however  Prlaical 
rich  his  prose  is  in  this  respeft,  his  poetical  pieces, 
in  general,  have  not  much  of  that  splendor,  but  are  rather  dis- 
tinguished by  strong  sentiment  and  acute  observation,  conveyed 
in  harmonious  and  energetic  verse,  particularly  in  heroic  couplets. 
Though  usually  grave  and  even  awful  in  his  deportment,  he 
possessed  uncommon  and  peculiar  powers  of  wit  and  humour;  he 
frequently  indulged  himself  in  colloquial  pleasantry;  and  the 
heartiest  merriment  was  often  enjoyed  in  his  company;  with  this 
great  advantage,  that  as  it  was  entirely  free  from  any  poisonous 


35 


MY      FAVORITE 


tin(5ture  of  vice  or  impiety,  it  was  salutary  to  those  who  shared 
in  it.  He  had  accustomed  himself  to  such  accuracy  in  his  com- 
mon conversation,  that  he  at  all  times  expressed  his  thoughts 
with  great  force  and  an  elegant  choice  of  language,  the  effect  of 
which  was  aided  by  his  having  a  loud  voice  and  a  slow,  deliber- 
ate utterance.  In  him  were  united  a  most  logical  head  with  a 
most  fertile  imagination,  which  gave  him  an  extraordinary  advan- 
tage in  arguing;  for  he  could  reason  close  or  wide,  as  he  saw 
best  for  the  moment.  Exulting  in  his  intelledual  strength  and 
dexterity,  he  could,  when  he  pleased,  be  the  greatest  sophist 
that  ever  contended  in   the   lists  of  declamation ;  and,  from  a 

spirit  of  contradiction  and  a  delight  in  showing 

Conscientious  in     his  powers,  he  would  often  maintain  the  wrong 

Argument.         side  with  equal  warmth  and  ingenuity;   so  that 

when  there  was  an  audience,  his  real  opinions 
could  seldom  be  gathered  from  his  talk;  though  when  he  was  in 
company  with  a  single  friend,  he  would  discuss  a  subjedt:  with 
genuine  fairness;  but  he  was  too  conscientious  to  make  error 
permanent  and  pernicious  by  deliberately  writing  it;  and  in  all 
his  numerous  works  he  earnestly  inculcated  what  appeared  to 
him  to  be  the  truth,  his  piety  being  constant,  and  the  ruling 
principle  of  all  his  condud:. 

Such  was  Samuel  Johnson,  a  man  whose  talents,  acquire- 
ments and  virtues  were  so  extraordinary  that  the  more  his  char- 
acter is  considered,  the  more  he  will  be  regarded  by  the  present 
age,  and  posterity,  with  admiration  and  reverence. 


36 


BOOK-SHELF 

LORD    CHESTERFIELD'S    LETTERS 

TO    HIS    SON. 


A  man  is  fit  for  neither  business  nor  pleasure  who  either 
cannot,  or  does  not,  command  and  dired  his  attention  to  the 
present  objed:,  and  in  some  degree  banish   for 
that  time  all  other  obie<5ls  from  his  thoughts.      If        ^, .  "^ 

111  c       \  J-  ''^"K  ^^  ^ 

at  a    ball,  a  supper,  a  party  or  pleasure,  a  man  Time. 

were  to  be  solving,  in  his  own  mind,  a  problem 
of  Euclid,  he  would  be  a  very  bad  companion,  and  make  a  very 
poor  figure  in  that  company ;  or,  if  in  studying  a  problem  in  his 
closet  he  were  to  think  of  a  minuet,  I  am  apt  to  believe  that  he 
would  make  a  very  poor  mathematician.  There  is  time  enough 
for  everything  in  the  course  of  the  day,  if  you  do  but  one  thing 
at  once;  but  there  is  not  time  enough  in  the  year,  if  you  will  do 
two  things  at  a  time.  The  Pensionary  de  Witt,  who  was  torn 
to  pieces  in  the  year  1672,  did  the  whole  business  of  the  Re- 
public, and  yet  had  time  left  to  go  to  assemblies  in  the  evening, 
and  sup  in  company.  Being  asked  how  he  could  possibly  find 
time  to  go  through  so  much  business,  and  yet  amuse  himself  in 
the  evenings  as  he  did,  he  answered.  There  was  nothing  so  easy; 
for  that  it  was  only  doing  one  thing  at  a  time,  and  never  putting 
off  anything  until  tomorrow  that  could  be  done  today.  This 
steady  and  undissipated  attention  to  one  objed;  is  a  sure  mark  of 
superior  genius,  as  hurry,  bustle  and  agitation  are  the  never- 
failing  symptoms  of  a  weak  and  frivolous  mind. 


There  is  no  surer  sign  in  the  world  of  a  little  weak  mind 

than  inattention.     Whatever  is  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth  doing 

well;    and   nothing   can   be    done   well   without 

attention.      It  is  the  sure  answer  of  a  fool,  when  . 

,     ,  .  ,  ,  .  ,  .  ,  Attentton. 

you  ask  nim  about  anythmg  that  was  said  or 
done,  where  he  was  present,  that  "truly  he  did 
not  mind  it."     And  why  did  not  the  fool  mind  it?     What  had 

37 


MY     FAVORITE 


he  else  to  do  there  but  to  mind  what  was  doing?  A  man  of 
sense  sees,  hears  and  retains  everything  that  passes  where  he  is.  I 
desire  I  may  never  hear  you  talk  of  not  minding,  nor  complain, 
as  most  fools  do,  of  a  treacherous  memory.  Mind  not  only  what 
people  say,  but  how  they  say  it;  and  if  you  have  any  sagacity 
you  may  discover  more  truth  by  your  eyes  than  by  your  ears. 
People  can  say  what  they  will,  but  they  cannot  look  just  as  they 
will;  and  their  looks  frequently  discover  what  their  words  are 
calculated  to  conceal.  Observe,  therefore,  people's  looks  care- 
fully when  they  speak,  not  only  to  you,  but  to  each  other.  I 
have  often  guessed  by  people's  faces  what  they  were  saying, 
though  I  could  not  hear  one  word  they  said.  The  most  mate- 
rial knowledge  of  all,  I   mean  the  knowledge  of  the  world,  is 

never  to   be  acquired   without   great   attention; 

.  ,.^  and  I  know  many  old  people,  who,  though  they 

*        have  lived  long  in  the  world,  are  but  children 

still  as  to  the  knowledge  of  it,  from  their  levity 
and  inattention.  Certain  forms,  which  all  people  comply  with, 
and  certain  arts  which  all  people  aim  at,  hide  in  some  degree  the 
truth,  and  give  a  general  exterior  resemblance  almost  to  every- 
body. Attention  and  sagacity  must  see  through  that  veil,  and 
discover  the  natural  charafter.  If  a  man  with  whom  you  are 
but  barely  acquainted,  to  whom  you  have  made  no  offers,  nor 
given  any  marks  of  friendship,  makes  you,  on  a  sudden,  strong 
professions  of  his,  receive  them  with  civility,  but  do  not  repay 
them  with  confidence;  he  certainly  means  to  deceive  you;  for 
one  man  does  not  fall  in  love  with  another  at  sight.  If  a  man 
uses  strong  protestations  or  oaths  to  make  you  believe  a  thing, 
which  is  of  itself  so  likely  and  probable,  that  the  bare  saying  of 
it  would  be  sufficient,  depend  upon  it  he  lies,  and  is  highly  in- 
terested in  making  you  believe  it;  or  else  he  would  not  take  so 
much  pains. 

I  know  no  one  thing  more  offensive  to  a  company  than 
inattention  and  distra(ition.  It  is  showing  them  the  usual  con- 
tempt; and  people  never  forgive  contempt.  No  man  is  distrait 
with    the   man    he    fears   or    the  woman    he    loves,  which  is  a 

78 


BOOK-SHELF 


proof  that  every  man  can  get  the  better  of  that  distradlon  when 

he  thinks  it  worth  his  while  to  do  so;  and  take  my  word  for  it, 

it  is  always  worth  his  while.     For  my  own  part 

I  would  rather  be  in  company  with  a  dead  man         ^ 
,  .,  ,  '-■'.-,         ,,  Inattention, 

than  with  an  absent  one;  tor  it  the  dead  man 

gives  me    no   pleasure,  at    least    he    shows   me 

no    contempt;    whereas    the    absent    man,  silently   indeed,  but 

very   plainly,   tells  me  that  he  does   not  think   me  worth   his 

attention. 

Besides,  can  an  absent  man  make  any  observations  upon 
the  characters,  customs  and  manners  of  the  company?  No.  He 
may  be  in  the  best  companies  all  his  lifetime  (if  they  will  admit 
him,  which,  if  I  were  they,  I  would  not)  and  never  be  one  jot 
the  wiser.  1  never  will  converse  with  an  absent  man ;  one  may 
as  well  talk  to  a  deaf  one.  It  is,  in  truth,  a  practical  blunder  to 
address  ourselves  to  a  man  who  we  see  plainly  neither  hears, 
minds  nor  understands  us.  Moreover,  I  aver  that  no  man  is  in 
any  degree  fit  for  either  business  or  conversation  who  cannot  and 
does  not  dire(5t  and  command  his  attention  to  the  present  subjedt, 
be  that  what  it  will. 

The  first  thing  necessary  in  writing  letters  of  business  is 
extreme  clearness  and  perspicuity ;  every  paragraph  should  be  so 
clear  and  unambiguous  that  the  dullest  fellow  in 
the  world  may  not  be  able  to  mistake  it,  nor        .  „  ^'^^"^^^ 

,  ,.        ,  •',    .  .        .  ,  ,      '  ,     and  Lorreilness  in 

obliged  to  read  it  twice  in  order  to  understand  Business  Letters. 
it.  This  necessary  clearness  implies  a  correct- 
ness, without  excluding  an  elegance  of  style.  Tropes,  figures, 
antitheses,  epigrams,  etc.,  would  be  as  misplaced  and  as  imperti- 
nent in  letters  of  business  as  they  are  sometimes  (if  judiciously 
used)  proper  and  pleasing  in  familiar  letters  upon  common  and 
trite  subjeds.  In  business  an  elegant  simplicity,  the  result  of 
care,  not  of  labor,  is  required.  Business  must  be  well,  not 
affeCledly,  dressed,  but  by  no  means  negligently.  Let  your  first 
attention  be  to  clearness,  and  read  every  paragraph  after  you 
have  written  it,  in  the  critical  view  of  discovering  whether  it  is 

39 


MY      FAVORITE 


possible  that  any  one  man  can  mistake  the  true  sense  of  it,  and 
correct  it  accordingly. 

Letters  of  business  will  not  only  admit  of,  but  be  the  better 
for,  certain  graces ;  but  then  they  must  be  scattered  with  a  sparing 
and  with  a  skilful  hand;  they  must  fit  their  place  exadly.  They 
must  decently  adorn  without  incumbering,  and  modestly  shine 
without  glaring. 

People  will  in  a  great  degree,  and  not  without  reason,  form 
their  opinion  of  you,  upon  that  which  they  have  of  your  friends; 
and  there  is  a  Spanish  proverb  which  says,  "Tell  me  whom  you 
live  with  and  I  will  tell  you  who  you  are."  One  may  fairly 
suppose  that  a  man  who  makes  a  knave  or  fool  his  friend  has 
something  very  bad  to  do  or  to  conceal.  But  at  the  same  time 
that  you  carefully  decline  the  friendship  of  knaves  and  fools,  if 
it  can  be  called  friendship,  there  is  no  occasion  to  make  either 
of  them  your  enemies,  wantonly  and  unprovoked ;  for  they  are 
numerous  bodies,  and   I   would  choose  a  secure 

Chotce  neutrality  than  alliance  or  war    with  either    of 

of  Friends  and         ,  •' 

Company.  ^^^m.  _       _ 

You  may  be  a  declared  enemy  to  their  vices 
and  follies  without  being  marked  out  by  them  as  a  personal  one. 
Their  enmity  is  the  next  dangerous  thing  to  their  friendship. 
Have  a  real  reserve  with  almost  everybody,  and  have  a  seeming 
reserve  with  almost  nobody,  for  it  is  very  disagreeable  to  seem 
reserved  and  very  dangerous  not  to  be  so.  Few  people  find  the 
true  medium ;  many  are  ridiculously  mysterious  and  reserved 
upon  trifles,  and  many  imprudently  communicative  of  all  they 
know.  The  next  thing  to  the  choice  of  your  friends  is  the 
choice  of  your  company.  Endeavor,  as  much  as  you  can,  to 
keep  company  with  people  above  you.  There  you  rise,  as 
much  as  you  sink  with  people  below  you;  for  (as  I  have  men- 
tioned before)  you  are  whatever  the  company  you  keep  is.  Do 
not  mistake  when  I  say  company  above  you,  and  think  that  I 
mean  with  regard  to  their  birth;  that  is  the  least  consideration; 
hut  I  mean  with  regard  to  their  merit  and  light  in  which  the 
world  considers  them. 

40 


BOOK-SHELF 


Of  all  the  men  that  I  ever  knew  in  my  life  —  and  I  knew 
him  extremely  well  —  the  late  Duke  of  Marlborough  possessed 
the  graces  in  the  highest  degree,  not  to  say  engrossed  them,  and 
indeed  he  got  the  most  by  them;  for  I  will  venture  —  contrary 
to  the  custom  of  profound  historians,  who  always  assign  deep 
cause  for  great  events — to  ascribe  the  better  half  of  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough's  greatness  and  riches  to  those  graces.  He 
was  eminently  illiterate,  wrote  bad  English  and  spelled  it  still 
worse.  He  had  no  share  of  what  is  commonly  called  parts; 
that  is,  he  had  no  brightness,  nothing  shining  in  his  genius.  He 
had,  most  undoubtedly,  an  excellent  good  plain  understanding, 
with  sound  judgment.  But  these  alone  would  probably  have 
raised  him  but  something  higher  than  they  found  him,  which 
was  page  to  King  James  the  Second's  Queen.  There  the  graces 
protected  and  promoted  him,  for  while  he  was  an  ensign  of  the 
guards,  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland,  then  favorite  mistress  to 
Charles  the  Second,  struck  by  those  very  graces, 
gave  him  five  thousand  pounds,  with  which  he  ^  ^  'f^^M  L  ' 
immediately  bought  an  annuity  for  his  life  of  ouch's  Success. 
five  hundred  pounds  a  year,  of  my  grandfather, 
Halifax,  which  was  the  foundation  of  his  subsequent  fortune. 
His  figure  was  beautiful,  but  his  manner  was  irresistible  to  either 
man  or  woman.  It  was  by  this  engaging,  graceful  manner  that 
he  was  enabled  during  all  his  war  to  conned:  the  varied  and  jar- 
ring powers  of  the  Grand  Alliance,  and  to  carry  them  on  to  the 
main  objed;  of  the  war,  notwithstanding  their  private  and  sepa- 
rate views,  jealousies  and  wrongheadednesses.  Whatever  court 
he  went  to  —  and  he  was  often  obliged  to  go  himself  to  some 
resty  and  refradory  ones  —  he  as  constantly  prevailed  and 
brought  them  into  his  measures.  The  Pensionary  Heinsius,  a 
venerable  old  minister,  grown  gray  in  business,  and  who  had 
governed  the  Republic  of  the  United  Provinces  for  more  than 
forty  years,  was  absolutely  governed  by  the  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough, as  that  Republic  feels  to  this  day.  He  was  always  cool, 
and  nobody  ever  observed  the  least  variation  in  his  counte- 
nance; he  could  refuse  more  gracefully  than  other  people  could 


41 


MY      FAVORITE 


grant;  and  those  who  went  away  from  him  the  most  dissatisfied 
as  to  the  substance  ot  their  business  were  yet  personally  charmed 
with  him,  and  in  some  degree  comforted  by  his  manner.  With 
all  his  gentleness  and  gracefulness  no  man  living  was  more  con- 
scious of  his  situation  nor  maintained  his  dignity  better. 

A  man  who  does  not  solidly  establish,  and  really  deserve, 

a  charader  of  truth,  probity,  good  manners  and  good  morals  at 

his  first  setting  out  in  the  world   may  impose 

r-      iTr°n"i   4     and  shine  like  a  meteor  for  a  very  short  time. 

Liar  If  til  Be  An     .  ...  .   .  i    i     "^        •  •   i      , 

Old  One.  "^^  ^^^^  ^^^Y  soon  vanish  and  be  extmguished 

with  contempt.  People  easily  pardon  in  young 
men  the  common  irregularities  of  the  senses,  but  they  do  not 
forgive  the  least  vice  of  the  heart.  The  heart  never  grows  bet- 
ter by  age;  I  rather  fear  worse,  always  harder.  A  young  liar 
will  be  an  old  one,  and  a  young  knave  will  only  be  a  greater 
knave  as  he  grows  older.  But  should  a  bad  young  heart,  accom- 
panied with  a  good  head  (which  by  the  way  seldom  is  the  case), 
really  reform  in  a  more  advanced  age  from  a  consciousness  of 
folly  as  well  as  of  its  guilt,  such  a  conversion  would  only  be 
thought  prudential  and  political,  but  never  sincere.  A  man's 
moral  character  is  more  delicate  than  a  woman's  reputation  for 
chastity.  A  slip  or  two  may  possibly  be  forgiven  her,  and  her 
character  may  be  clarified  by  subsequent  and  continued  good 
condud,  but  a  man's  moral  charadter  once  tainted  is  irreparably 
destroyed. 

Enjoy  pleasures,  but  let  them  be  your  own,  and  then  you 

will   taste  them,  but  adopt  none;    trust  to   nature  for    genuine 

ones.     The  pleasures  that  you  would  feel  you 

XT        'J^^V  must  earn;   the  man  who  gives   himself  to  all 

Nature  for  uenutne    ^     .  ...  o       i  i  t 

Pleasures.  i^^^s,   none  sensibly,      bardanapalus,   1   am  con- 

vinced, never  in  his  life  felt  any.  Those  only 
who  join  serious  occupations  with  pleasures  feel  either  as  they 
should  do.  Alcibiades,  though  addidted  to  the  most  shameful 
excesses,  gave  some  time  to   philosophy  and  some  to   business. 

42 


BOOK-SHELF 


Julius  Caesar  joined  business  with  pleasure  so  properly  that  they 
mutually  assisted  each  other;  and  though  he  was  the  husband 
of  all  the  wives  at  Rome,  he  found  time  to  be  one  of  the  best 
scholars,  almost  the  best  orator,  and  absolutely  the  best  general 
there.  An  uninterrupted  life  of  pleasures  is  as  insipid  as  con- 
temptible. Some  hours  given  every  day  to  serious  business 
must  whet  both  the  mind  and  the  senses  to  enjoy  those  of  pleas- 
ure. A  surfeited  glutton,  an  emaciated  sot,  and  an  enervated 
libertine  never  enjoy  the  pleasures  to  which  they  devote  them- 
selves; they  are  only  so  many  human  sacrifices  to  false  gods. 
The  pleasures  of  low  life  are  all  of  this  mistaken,  merely  sensual 
and  disgraceful  nature;  whereas  those  of  high  life,  and  in  good 
company  (though  possibly  in  themselves  not  more  moral),  are 
more  delicate,  more  refined,  less  dangerous  and  less  disgraceful, 
and  in  the  common  course  of  things,  not  reckoned  disgraceful 
at  all.  In  short,  pleasure  must  not,  nay,  cannot, 
be  the  business  of  a  man  of  sense  and  character,    „  '^z  Xr. 

,  .  ....         1-    r   1  •  1         T      •      Business  and  a  lime 

but  It  may,  and  is,  his  relier,  his  reward.  It  is  r^j.  pleasure. 
particularly  so  with  regard  to  the  women  who 
have  the  utmost  contempt  for  those  men  that,  having  no  char- 
adter  nor  consideration  with  their  own  sex,  frivolously  pass  their 
whole  time  in  ruelles  and  at  toilettes.  They  look  upon  them  as 
their  lumber,  and  remove  them  whenever  they  can  get  better 
furniture.  Women  choose  their  favorites  more  by  the  ear  than 
by  any  other  of  their  senses,  or  even  their  understandings.  The 
man  whom  they  hear  the  most  commended  by  the  men  will 
always  be  the  best  received  by  them.  Such  a  conquest  flatters 
their  vanity,  and  vanity  is  their  universal,  if  not  their  strongest, 
passion.  A  distinguished  shining  character  is  irresistible  with 
them;  they  crowd  to,  nay,  they  even  quarrel  for,  the  danger,  in 
hopes  of  the  triumph. 

Though,  by  the  way,  to  use  a  vulgar  expression,  she  who 
conquers  only  catches  a  Tartar,  and  becomes  the  slave  of  her 
captive.  Mais  c  est  la  leur  affaire.  Divide  your  time  between 
useful  occupations  and  elegant  pleasures.  The  morning  seems 
to  belong  to  study,  business  or  serious  conversations  with  men 

43 


FAVOR 


of  learning  and  figure,  not  that  I  exclude  an  occasional  hour  at 
a  toilette.  From  sitting  down  to  dinner,  the  proper  business  of 
the  day  is  pleasure,  unless  real  business,  which  must  never  be 
postponed  for  pleasure,  happens  accidentally  to  interfere.  In 
good  company  the  pleasures  of  the  table  are  always  carried  to  a 
certain  point  of  delicacy  and  gratification,  but  never  to  excess  or 
riot.  Plays,  operas,  balls,  suppers,  gay  conversations  in  polite 
and  cheerfijl  companies,  properly  conclude  the  evenings,  not  to 
mention  the  tender  looks  that  you  may  dired:  and  the  sighs  that 
you  may  offer  upon  these  several  occasions  to  some  propitious 
or  unpropitious  female  deity,  whose  character  and  manners  will 
neither  disgrace  nor  corrupt  yours.  This  is  the  life  of  a  man  of 
real  sense  and  pleasure;  and  by  this  distribution  of  your  time 
and  choice  of  your  pleasures,  you  will  be  equally  qualified  for 
the  busy  or  the  beau  monde. 

Pray  let  no  quibbles  of  lawyers,  no  refinements  of  casuists, 

break  into  the  plain   notions  of  right  and  wrong,  which  every 

man's  right  reason  and  plain  common  sense  sug- 

The  gests  to  him.     To  do  as  you  would  be  done  by 

Golden  Rule.       is  the  plain,  sure  and  undisputed  rule  of  morality 

and   justice.     Stick  to  that    and    be   convinced 

that  whatever  breaks  into  it,  in  any  degree,  however  speciously 

it  may  be  turned,  and  however  puzzling  it  may  be  to  answer  it, 

is,  notwithstanding,  false  in  itself,  unjust  and  criminal. 

Common   sense  (which  in  truth  is  very  uncommon)  is  the 
best  sense  I    know  of;  abide  by  it,  it  will  counsel  you  the  best. 

Mankind  is  more  governed  by  appearances  than  by  reali- 
ties; and,  with  regard  to  opinion,  one  had  better  be  really  rough 
and  hard,  with  the  appearance  of  gentleness  and 
Appearances :       softness,  than  just  the  reverse. 
False  and  True.  Pew   people  have  penetration   to  discover, 

attention   enough   to    deserve,  or   even    concern 
enough  to  examine  beyond  the  exterior;  they  take  their  notions 

44 


BOOK-SHELF 


from  the  surface,  and  go  no  deeper;  they  commend  as  the  gen- 
tlest and  best-natured  man  in  the  world,  that  man  who  has  the 
most  engaging  exterior  manner,  though  possibly  they  have  been 
once  in  his  company. 

An  air,  a  tone  of  voice,  a  composure  of   countenance  to 
mildness  and  softness,  which  are  all  easily  acquired,  do  the  busi- 
ness, and   without  farther  examination,  and  pos- 
sibly with   the    contrary  qualities,  that    man    is         w'^llr 
reckoned  the  gentlest,  the  modestest  and  the  best-  Bubble 

natured  man  alive.  Happy  the  man  who  with 
a  certain  fund  of  parts  and  knowledge  gets  acquainted  with  the 
world  early  enough  to  make  it  his  bubble,  at  an  age  when  most 
people  are  the  bubbles  of  the  world,  for  that  is  the  common  case 
of  youth.  They  grow  wiser  when  it  is  too  late;  and,  ashamed 
and  vexed  at  having  been  bubbles  so  long,  too  often  turn  knaves 
at  last. 

"Without  any  extraordinary  efforts  of  genius    I    have  dis- 
covered that  nature  was  the  same  three  thousand  years  ago  as  it 
is  at  present;  that  men  were  but  men  then  as 
well  as  now;  that  modes  and  customs  vary  very  ^i^'^^", 

r  1  1         u  -1  L  Always  the 

often,  but  that  human  nature  is  always  the  same.  ^^^^ 

And    I    can    no   more  suppose   that    men  were 
better,  braver  or  wiser  fifteen  hundred  or  three  thousand  years 
ago  than   I   can  suppose  that  the  animals    or   vegetables    were 
better  than  they  are  now. 

A  vulgar  man  is  captious  and  jealous;  eager  and  impetuous 
about  trifles.      He  suspeds  himself  to  be  slighted,  thinks  every- 
thing that  is  said  is  meant  for  him ;  if  the  com- 
pany  happens   to    laugh,  he   is   persuaded   they  The 
laugh  at   him ;   he   grows   angry  and   testy,  says       Vulgar  Man. 
something  very  impertinent,  and  draws   himself 
into  a  scrape  by  showing  what  he  calls  a  proper  spirit  and  assert- 
ing himself.     A  man  of  fashion  does  not  suppose  himself  to  be 

45 


MY      FAVORITE 


141^1 


either  the  sole  or  principal  objedis  of  the  thoughts,  looks  or 
words  of  the  company,  and  never  suspedls  that  he  is  either 
slighted  or  laughed  at,  unless  he  is  conscious  that  he  deserves  it. 
And  if  (which  very  seldom  happens)  the  company  is 
absurd  or  ill-bred  enough  to  do  either,  he  does  not  care  two 

pence,  unless  the  insult  be  so  gross  and  plain  as 

The  to  require  satisfaction  of  another  kind.     As  he 

Vulgar  Man.       is  above  trifles,  he  is  never  vehement  and  eager 

about  them;  and,  wherever  they  are  concerned, 
rather  acquiesces  than  wrangles.  A  vulgar  man's  conversation 
always  savors  strongly  of  the  lowness  of  his  education  and  com- 
pany. It  turns  chiefly  upon  his  domestic  afi^airs,  his  servants, 
the  excellent  order  he  keeps  in  his  own  family,  and  the  little 
anecdotes  of  the  neighborhood,  all  which  he  relates  with  empha- 
sis as  interesting  matters. 

The   most    disagreeable   composition   that    I   know  in   the 

world  is  that  of  strong  animal  spirits,  with  a  cold  genius.      Such 

a  fellow  is  troublesomely  a6live,  frivolously  busy, 

foolishly  lively,  talks  much,  with  little  meaning, 

'         and  laughs  more  with  less  reason ;  whereas,  in 

my  opinion,  a  warm  and  lively  genius,  with  a 

cold  constitution,  is  the  perfection  of  human  nature. 

If  you  would  particularly  gain  the  afi^edion  and  friendship 
of  particular  people,  whether  men  or  women,  endeavor  to  find 
out  their  predominant  excellency,  if  they   have 
one,  and  their  prevailing  weakness,  which  every- 
"'■^'  body  has,  and  do  justice  to  the  one  and  something 

more  than  justice  to  the  other.  Men  have  vari- 
ous objects  in  which  they  may  excel,  or  at  least  would  be  thought 
to  excel;  and  though  they  love  to  hear  justice  done  to  them 
where  they  know  that  they  excel,  yet  they  are  most  and  best 
flattered  upon  those  points  where  they  wish  to  excel,  and  yet  are 
doubtful  whether  they  do  or  not.  As  for  example:  Cardinal 
Richelieu,  who  was  undoubtedly   the    ablest    statesman   of   his 

46 


BOOK-SHELF 


time,  or  perhaps  of  any  other,  had  the  Idle  vanity  of  being 
thought  the  best  poet  too ;  he  envied  the  great  Corneille  his 
reputation,  and  ordered  a  criticism  to  be  written  upon  the  "  Cid." 
Those,  therefore,  who  flattered  skilfully,  said  little  to  him  of  his 
abilities  in  state  afi^airs,  or  at  least  but  en  passant^  and  as  it  might 
naturally  occur;  but  the  incense  which  they  gave  him,  the  smoke 
of  which  they  knew  would  turn  his  head  in  their  favor,  was  as 
a  bel  esprit  and  a  poet.  Why  ?  Because  he  was  sure  of  one 
excellency  and  distrustful  of  the  other.  You  will  easily  discover 
every  man's  prevailing  vanity  by  observing  his  favorite  topic  of 
conversation,  for  every  man  talks  most  of  what  he  has  most  a 
mind  to  be  thought  to  excel  in.  Touch  him 
but  there  and  you  touch  him  to  the  quick.     The  Sir 

late  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  who  was  certainly  an  Robert  Walpok. 
able  man,  was  little  open  to  flattery  on  that  head, 
for  he  was  in  no  doubt  himself  about  it;  but  his  prevailing 
weakness  was  to  be  thought  to  have  a  polite  and  happy  turn  to 
gallantry,  of  which  he  had  undoubtedly  less  than  any  man  living; 
it  was  his  favorite  and  frequent  subjed;  of  conversation,  which 
proved,  to  those  who  had  any  penetration,  that  it  was  his  pre- 
vailing weakness ;  and  they  applied  to  it  with  success. 

There  are  two  inconsistent  passions  which,  however,  fre- 
quently accompany  each  other  like  man  and  wife,  and  which, 
like    man  and  wife,  are  commonly  clogs  upon 
each  other.     I   mean  ambition  and  avarice;  the  Cardinal 

latter  is  often  the  true  cause  of  the  former,  and  Mazarin. 

then  is  the  predominant  passion.     It  seems  to 
have  been  so  in  Cardinal  Mazarin,  who  did  anything,  submitted 
to  anything,  and  forgave  anything  for  the  sake  of  plunder.     He 
loved  and  courted  power  like  an  usurer,  because  it  carried  profit 
along  with  it. 

Whoever  should  have  formed  his  opinion  or  taken  his  meas- 
ures singly  from  the  ambitious  part  of  Cardinal  Mazarin's  character 
would  have  found  himself  often  mistaken.  Some  who  had  found 
this  out  made  their  fortunes  by  letting  him  cheat  them  at  play. 

47 


MY      FAVORITE 


On   the  contrary,   Cardinal    Richelieu's  prevailing    passion 

seems  to  have  been  ambition,  and  his  immense  riches  only  the 

natural  consequences  of  that  ambition  gratified; 

„.  ,  ,.  and  vet  I  make  no  doubt  but  that  ambition  had 

Rubelieu.  ^       \  •  •  i        i        r  i 

now    and    then    its   turn  with    the  rormer    and 

avarice  with  the  latter.  Richelieu,  by  the  way, 
is  so  strong  a  proof  of  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature  that  I 
cannot  help  observing  to  you  that,  while  he  absolutely  governed 
both  his  king  and  his  country,  and  was,  in  a  great  degree,  the 
arbiter  of  the  fate  of  all  Kurope,  he  was  more  jealous  of  the 
great  reputation  of  Corneille  than  of  the  power  of  Spain,  and 
more  flattered  of  being  thought,  what  he  was  not,  the  best  poet, 
than  at  being  thought,  what  he  certainly  was,  the  greatest  states- 
man in  Kurope;  and  affairs  stood  still  while  he  was  concerting 
the  criticism  upon  the  "Cid."  Could  one  think  this  possible 
if  one  did  not  know  it  to  be  true?  Though  men  are  all  of  one 
composition,  the  several  ingredients  are  so  differently  propor- 
tioned in  each  individual,  that  no  two  are  exad:iy 
Vanity  alike,  and  no  one  at  all  times  like  himself.     The 

of  Richelieu.  ablest  man  will  sometimes  do  weak  things,  the 
proudest  man  mean  things,  the  honestest  man 
ill  things,  and  the  wickedest  man  good  ones.  Study  individuals 
then ;  and  if  you  take,  as  you  ought  to  do,  their  outlines  from 
their  prevailing  passion,  suspend  your  last  finishing  strokes  till 
you  have  attended  to  and  discovered  the  operations  of  their 
inferior  passions,  appetites  and  humours.  A  man's  general  char- 
acter may  be  that  of  the  honestest  man  in  the  world;  do  not 
dispute  it  —  you  might  bethought  envious  or  ill-natured;  but 
at  the  same  time  do  not  take  this  probity  upon  trust  to  such  a 
degree  as  to  put  your  life,  fortune  or  reputation  in  his  power. 
This  honest  man  may  happen  to  be  your  rival  in  power,  in 
interest  or  in  love,  three  passions  that  often  put  honesty  to  most 
severe  trials,  in  which  it  is  too  often  cast;  but  first  analyze  this 
honest  man  yourself,  and  then  only  will  you  be  able  to  judge 
how  far  you  may  or  may  not  with  safety  trust  him. 


48 


BOOK-SHELF 


A  man   of  the   best  parts  and  the  greatest  learning,  if  he 
does  not  know  the  world  by  his  own  experience  and  observation, 
will    be    very    absurd,    and    consequently    very 
unwelcome,  in  company.  Knowledge  of 

He  may  say  very  good  things,  but  they  ^^^  World. 
will  probably  be  so  ill-timed,  misplaced  or  im- 
properly addressed  that  he  had  much  better  hold  his  tongue. 
Full  of  his  own  matter,  and  uninformed  of  or  inattentive  to  the 
particular  circumstances  and  situations  of  the  company,  he  vents 
it  indiscriminately;  he  puts  some  people  out  of  countenance,  he 
shocks  others,  and  frightens  all,  who  dread  what  may  come  next. 

A  system-monger  who,  without  knowing  anything  of  the 
world  by  experience,  has  formed  a  system  of  it  in  his  dusty  cell, 
lays  it  down,  for  example,  that  ( from  the  general 
nature    of  mankind)  flattery  is    pleasing.     He  _, 

will  therefore  flatter.  But  how?  Why,  indis- 
criminately. And  instead  of  repairing  and 
heightening  the  piece  judiciously  with  soft  colors  and  a  delicate 
pencil,  with  a  coarse  brush  and  a  great  deal  of  whitewash  he 
daubs  and  besmears  the  piece  he  means  to  adorn.  His  flattery 
ofi^ends  even  his  patron,  and  is  almost  too  gross  for  his  mistress. 
A  man  of  the  world  knows  the  force  of  flattery  as  well  as  he 
does;  but  then  he  knows  how,  when  and  where  to  give  it;  he 
proportions  his  dose  to  the  constitution  of  the  patient.  He 
flatters  by  application,  by  inference,  by  comparison,  by  hint,  and 
seldom  diredtly.  In  the  course  of  the  world  there  is  the  same 
difi^erence,  in  everything,  between  system  and  practise. 

Achilles,  though  invulnerable,  never  went  a  h'll 

to  battle  but  completely  armed. 

If  you  find  that  you  have  a  hastiness  in  your  temper,  which 
unguardedly  breaks  out  into  indiscreet  sallies  or  rough  expres- 
sions, to  either  your  superiors,  your  equals  or  your  inferiors, 
watch  it  narrowly,  check  it  carefully,  and  call  the  suaviter  in 
modo  to  your  assistance;  at  the  first  impulse  of  passion  be  silent 

49 


MY      FAVORITE 


till  you  can  be  soft.      Labor  even  to  get  the  command  of  your 
countenance  so  well,  that  those  emotions  may  not  be  read  in  it, 
a  most  unspeakable  advantage  in  business.      On 
Control  the  other  hand,  let  no  complaisance,  no  gentle- 

of  Temper.  ness  of  temper,  no  weak  desire  of  pleasing  on 
your  part,  no  wheedling,  coaxing  nor  flattery  on 
other  people's  make  you  recede  one  jot  from  any  point  that 
reason  and  prudence  have  bid  you  pursue;  but  return  to  the 
charge,  persist,  persevere,  and  you  will  find  most  things  attain- 
able that  are  possible.  A  yielding,  timid  weakness  is  always 
abused  and  insulted  by  the  unjust  and  the  unfeeling;  but  when 
sustained  by  the  for  titer  in  re^  is  always  respected,  commonly 
successful. 

In    your  friendships  and  connexions,  as  well   as  in   your 
enmities,  this  rule  is  particularly  useful ;  let  your  firmness  and 
vigor  preserve  and  invite  attachments  to    you, 
Control  but,  at  the  same  time,  let  your  manner  hinder 

of  Temper.  the  enemies  of  your  friends  and  dependents  from 
becoming  yours;  let  your  enemies  be  disarmed 
bv  the  gentleness  of  your  manner,  but  let  them  feel  at  the  same 
time  the  steadiness  of  your  just  resentment;  for  there  is  great 
difference  between  bearing  malice,  which  is  always  ungenerous, 
and  a  resolute  self-defense,  which  is  always  prudent  and  justi- 
fiable. 

Never  show  the  least  symptoms  of  resentment  which  you 

cannot,  to  a  certain  degree,  gratify;  but  always  smile  where  you 

cannot  strike.      There  would    be    no    living    in 

„  Courts,  nor  indeed  in  the  world,  if  one  could  not 

Resentment.  ,         .  ..  i  i       i       •  r 

conceal  and  even  dissemble  the  just  causes  or  re- 
sentment, which  one  meets  with  every  day  in 
a(5live  and  busy  life.  Whoever  cannot  master  his  humour  enough, 
pour  faire  bonne  mine  a  mauvais  jeu^  should  leave  the  world  and 
retire  to  some  hermitage  in  an  unfrequented  desert.  By  showing 
an  unavailing  and  sullen  resentment,  you  authorize  the  resent- 
ment of  those  who  can  hurt  you,  and  whom  you  cannot  hurt; 

50 


BOOK-SHELF 


and  give  them  that  very  pretence,  which  perhaps  they  wished 
for,  of  breaking  with  and  injuring  you;  whereas  the  contrary 
behaviour  would  lay  them  under  the  restraints  of  decency,  at 
least,  and  either  shackle  or  expose  their  malice.  Besides,  cap- 
tiousness,  sullenness  and  pouting  are  most  exceedingly  illiberal 
and  vulgar. 

Constant  experience  has  shown  me  that  great  purity  and 
elegance  of  style,  with  a  graceful  elocution,  cover  a  multitude  of 
faults  in  either  a  speaker  or  a  writer.     For  my 
own  part,   I   confess  (and   I   believe  that    most      .    „   ^g^"^^ 

1  r  -1X1        -c  I  1        1  1       '^  hpeaktns,  and 

people  are  or  my  mmd)  that  ir  a  speaker  should  Wntinp. 

ungracefully  mutter  or  stammer  out  to  me  the 
sense   of  an  angel,  deformed  by  barbarisms  and  solecisms,  or 
larded  with  vulgarisms,  he  should  never  speak  to  me  a  second 
time,  if  I  could  help  it. 

Nothing  sinks  a  young  man  into  low  company,  both  of 
women  and  men,  so  surely  as  timidity  and  diffidence  of  himself. 
If  he  thinks  that  he  shall  not,  he  may  depend 
upon  it  he  will  not,  please.      But  with  proper      o  ;/- ^    r, 

*^ ,  ,  11  c  •  S^(f-  Confidence. 

endeavors  to  please,  and  a  degree  or  persuasion 
that  he  shall,  it  is  almost  certain  that  he  will. 
How  many  people  does  one  meet  with  everywhere  who  with 
very  moderate  parts  and  very  little  knowledge  push  themselves 
pretty  far  simply  by  being  sanguine,  enterprising  and  persever- 
ing? They  will  take  no  denial  from  man  or  woman;  difficulties 
do  not  discourage  them ;  repulsed  twice  or  thrice  they  rally,  they 
charge  again,  and  nine  times  in  ten  prevail  at  last.  In  business 
(talents  supposed)  nothing  is  more  effedual  or  successful  than 
a  good,  though  concealed,  opinion  of  one's  self,  a  firm  resolution 
and  an  unwearied  perseverance.  None  but  madmen  attempt 
impossibilities,  and  whatever  is  possible  is  one  way  or  another  to 
be  brought  about.  If  one  method  fails  try  another,  and  suit 
your  methods  to  the  characters  you  have  to  do  with. 


51 


MY      FAVORITE 


I   am  convinced  that  the  consciousness  of  merit  makes  a 
man  of  sense  more  modest,  though  more  firm.     A   man  who 
displays  his  own  merit  is  a  coxcomb,  and  a  man 
,,    .  who  does  not  know  it  is  a  fool. 

Merst.  .  c  .  .  ... 

A  man  or  sense  knows  it,  exerts  it,  avails 
himself  of  it,  but  never  boasts  of  it,  and  always 
seems  rather  to  under  than  over  value  it,  though,  in  truth,  he 
sets  the  right  value  upon  it.     A  man  who  is  really  diffident, 
timid  and  bashful,  be  his  merit  what  it  will,  never  can  push  him- 
self in  the  world;    his  despondency  throws  him  into  inadlion, 
and  the  forward,  the  bustling  and  the  petulant 
Consciousness       will  always  get  the  better  of  him.     The  manner 
of  Merit.  makes  the  whole  diffisrence.     What   would   be 

impudence  in  one  manner  is  only  a  proper  and 
decent  assurance  in  another.  A  man  of  sense  and  knowledge 
of  the  world  will  assert  his  own  rights  and  pursue  his  own 
objects  as  steadily  and  intrepidly  as  the  most  impudent  man 
living,  and  commonly  more  so;  but  then  he  has  art  enough  to 
give  an  outward  air  of  modesty  to  all  he  does.  This  engages 
and  prevails,  whilst  the  very  same  things  shock  and  fail  from  the 
overbearing  or  impudent  manner  only  of  doing  them.  I  repeat 
my  maxim,  Suaviter  in  modoy  sed  for  titer  in  re. 

A  man  of  sense  may  be  in  haste,  but  can   never  be  in  a 
hurry,  because  he  knows  that  whatever  he  does  in  a  hurry  he 
must   necessarily   do  very  ill.     He   may  be  in 
„  haste  to  despatch  an  affair,  but  he  will  take  care 

not  to  let  that  haste  hinder  his  doing  it  well. 
Little  minds  are  in  a  hurry  when  the  objeft 
proves,  as  it  commonly  does,  too  big  for  them;  they  run,  they 
hare,  they  puzzle,  confound  and  perplex  themselves;  they  want 
to  do  everything  at  once,  and  never  do  it  at  all.  But  a  man  of 
sense  takes  the  time  necessary  for  doing  the  thing  he  is  about  well, 
and  his  haste  to  despatch  a  business  only  appears  by  the  con- 
tinuity of  his  application  to  it;  he  pursues  it  with  a  cool  steadi- 
ness and  finishes  it  before  be  begins  any  other. 

52 


BOOK-SHELF 

DAWSON. 


[  Much  of  the  life  of  the  compiler  has  been  spent  in  the 

country,  amongst  the  trees  and  silent  streams,  believing,  as  he 

ever  has,  that  there  we 

The 

'*  Find  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks.  Author  a  Confessed 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything."  Angler. 

The  following  article  from  the  pen  of  a  brother  angler  appeals 
to  him  so  strongly  that  he  cannot  refrain  from  reproducing  it. 
Then,  again,  the  book  "The  Pleasures  of  Angling"  is  on  his 
"  favorite  book-shelf,"  and  it  is  a  fit  and  loving  companion 
for  all  the  wealth  of  wit  and  wisdom  found  in  the  pages  of  those 
here  associated  with  it.  No  lover  of  angling  will  fail  to  read 
with  enthusiasm  the  following  description  of  a  fight  with  a  royal 
trout]  : 

During  a   short  afternoon   I   landed   from  a  deep  pool  in 
Cold  Brook  fifty  splendid  trout,  and  fished  three  hours  for  one. 
It  was  on  this  wise :  For  an  hour  or  more  before 
sunset  a  trout  which  I  estimated  to  weigh  more 

,  ,  111  •  Royal  Sport. 

than  three  pounds  kept  the  water  m  constant 
agitation  and  myself  in  a  fever  of  excitement.  I 
cast  for  him  a  hundred  times  at  least.  With  almost  every  cast 
he  would  rise,  but  would  not  strike.  He  would  come  up  with 
a  rush,  leap  his  full  length  out  of  the  water,  shake  his  broad  tail 
at  me,  as  if  in  derision,  and  retire  to  repeat  his  aggravating 
exploits  as  often  as  the  fly  struck  the  water.  Other  trout  rose, 
almost  his  equal  in  dimensions,  and  were  taken,  but  their  capture 
soon  ceased  to  afford  me  the  slightest  pleasure.  The  sun  was 
rapidly  declining.  We  had  eight  miles  to  row,  and  prudence 
dictated  a  speedy  departure.  But  I  was  bound  to  land  that  trout 
"if  it  took  all  summer."     I  tried  almost  every  fly  in  my  book 

53 


MY      FAVORITE 


in  vain;  I  simply  witnessed  the  same  provoking  gyrations  at 
every  cast.  If,  however,  I  threw  him  a  grasshopper  disconnedled 
from  mv  line,  he  would  take  it  with  a  gulp;  but  the  moment  I 
affixed  one  to  the  hook  and  cast  it  ever  so  gently,  up  he  came 
and  down  he  went  unhooked,  with  the  grasshopper  inta6t.  I 
was  puzzled,  and  as  a  last  resort  I  sat  quietly  down  hopeless  of 
achieving  success  so  long  as  light  enough  remained  for  the  wary 
fellow  to  deted:  the  shadow  of  rod  or  line.  The  sun  soon  set. 
Twilight  gently  began  its  work  of  obscuration,  and  in  due  time 
just  the  shadow  I  desired  fell  upon  the  surface  of  the  pool.  I 
then  disrobed  my  leader  of  its  quartette  of  flies,  put  on  a  large 
miller,  and  with  as  much  caution  as  if  commissioned  to  surprise 
a  rebel  camp,  and  with  like  trepidation,  I  chose  my  position. 
Then,  with  a  twist  of  the  wrist,  which  experts  will  comprehend, 
I  dropped  my  fly  as  gently  as  a  zephyr  just  where  the  monster 
had  made  his  last  tantalizing  leap,  when,  with  the  ferocity  of  a 
mad  bull  and  with  a  quick  dash  which  fairly 
,  „  startled  me  in  the  dim  twilight,  he  rose  to  my 

Royal  Sport.  ...  ,-i  ,  -tl  • 

miller,  and  with  another  twist  or  the  wrist,  as 
quick  and  as  sudden  as  his  rise,  /  struck  him! 
I  have  been  present  in  crowds  when  grand  victories  have  been 
suddenly  announced,  and  when  my  blood  has  rushed  like 
eleftric  currents  through  my  veins  as  I  joined  in  the  spontaneous 
shout  of  the  multitude,  but  I  have  passed  through  no  moment 
of  more  intense  exhilaration  than  when  I  knew,  by  the  graceful 
curve  of  my  rod  and  by  the  steady  tension  of  my  trusty  line, 
that  I  was  master  of  the  situation.  He  pulled  like  a  Canastoga 
stallion,  and  "gave  me  all  I  knew"  to  hold  him  within  the 
restricted  circle  of  the  deep  pool,  whose  edges  were  lined  with 
roots  and  stumps  and  things  equivalent.  It  was  half  an  hour's 
stirring  contest,  and  the  hooting  of  the  owl  in  the  midst  of  the 
darkness  which  enveloped  us  was  the  trout's  requiem.  When  I 
landed  him  and  had  him  fairly  in  quad,  will  it  be  deemed  silly 
for  me  to  say  that  I  made  the  old  woods  ring  with  such  a  shout 
as  one  can  only  give  when  conscious  of  having  achieved  a  great 
victory? 

54 


BOOK-SHELF 


DICKENS. 


Why  is  it  that  we  can  better  bear  to  part  in  spirit  than  in 
body,  and  while  we  have  the  fortitude  to  ad:  farewell,  have  not 
the  nerve  to  say  it?     On  the  eve  of  long  voy- 
ages or  the  absence  of  many  years,  friends  who  ^  nffi"  l 
are  tenderly  attached  will  separate  with  the  usual     y^^^  ^^^  Dirge. 
look,  the  usual  pressure  of  the  hand,  planning 
one  final  interview  for  the  morrow,  while  each  well  knows  that 
it  is  but  a  poor  feint  to  save  the  pain  of  uttering  that  one  word, 
and  that  the    meeting  will   never   be.     Should    possibilities  be 
worse  to  bear  than    certainties?     We  do  not  shun    our  dying 
friends;  the  not    having   distinctly  taken  leave  of  one  among 
them,  whom  we  left  in    all  kindness  and    affediion,  will   often 
embitter  the  whole  remainder  of  a  life. 

And  let  me  linger  in  this  place,  for  an  instant,  to  remark 

that  if  ever  household  affedions  and  loves  are  graceful  things, 

they  are  graceful  in  the    poor.     The  ties    that 

bind  the  wealthy  and  the  proud  to  home  may        ,,    ^^.  ^, 
1       r  J  11  111-11  Home  tn  the 

be  rorged  on  earth,  but  those  that  Imk  the  poor  p^^^ 

man  to  his  humble  hearth  are  of  truer  metal 
and  bear  the  stamp  of  heaven.  The  man  of  high  descent 
may  love  the  halls  and  lands  of  his  inheritance  as  a  part  of 
himself;  as  trophies  of  his  birth  and  power;  his  associations 
with  them  are  associations  of  pride  and  wealth  and  triumph  ; 
the  poor  man's  attachment  to  the  tenements  he  holds,  which 
strangers  have  held  before,  and  may  tomorrow  occupy  again, 
has  a  worthier  root,  struck  deeper  into  a  purer  soil.  His 
household  gods  are  flesh  and  blood,  with  no  alloy  of  silver, 
gold  or  precious  stone;  he  has  no  property  but  in  the  affec- 
tions of  his  own  heart;  and  when  they  endear  bare  floors  and 
walls,  despite   of  rags   and   toil   and  scanty  fare,  that  man   has 


MY      FAVORITE 


his    love   of    home    from    God,   and    his    rude    hut    becomes   a 
solemn  place. 

Oh,  if  those  who  rule  the  destinies  of  nations  would  but 
remember  this  —  if  they  would  but  think  how  hard  it  is  for  the 
very  poor  to  have  engendered  in  their  hearts,  that  love  of  home 
from  which  all  domestic  virtues  spring,  when  they  live  in  dense 
and  squalid  masses  where  social  decency  is  lost,  or,  rather, 
never  found,  if  they  would  but  turn  aside  from  the  wide  thor- 
oughfares and  great  houses,  and  strive  to  improve  the  wretched 
dwellings  in  by-ways  where  only  Poverty  may  walk,  many  low 
roofs  would  point  more  truly  to  the  sky  than  the  loftiest  steeple 
that  now  rears  proudly  up  from  the  midst  of  guilt  and  crime 
and  horrible  disease  to  mock  them  by  its  contrast!  In  hollow 
voices  from  Workhouse,  Hospital  and  Jail,  this  truth  is  preached 
from  day  to  day,  and  had  been  proclaimed  for  years.  It  is  no 
light  matter,  no  outcry  from  the  working  vulgar,  no  mere 
question  of  the  people's  health  and  comforts  that  may  be 
whistled  down  on  Wednesday  nights.  In  love  of  home,  the 
love  of  country  has  its  rise;  and  who  are  the  truer  patriots  or 
the  better  in  time  of  need  —  those  who  venerate  the  land,  owing 
to  its  wood,  and  stream,  and  earth,  and  all  that  they  produce,  or 
those  who  love  their  country,  boasting  not  a  foot  of  ground  in 
all  its  wide  domain? 

It  was  a  very  quiet  place,  as  such  a  place  should  be,  save 

for  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  who  had  built  their  nests  among  the 

branches  of  some  tall  old  trees,  and  were  calling 

.  „    .  to  one  another  high  up  in  the  air.     First,  one 

A  Rookery.  i      ,      i  •     i     i  •  ^       i  •  ,1  • 

sleek  bird,  novenng  near  his  ragged  house  as  it 
swung  and  dangled  in  the  wind,  uttered  his 
hoarse  cry,  quite  by  chance,  as  it  would  seem,  and  in  a  sober 
tone  as  though  he  were  but  talking  to  himself.  Another 
answered,  and  he  called  again,  but  louder  than  before;  then 
another  spoke,  and  then  another;  and  each  time  the  first,  aggra- 
vated by  contradiction,  insisted  on  his  case  more  strongly. 
Other  voices,  silent  till  now,  struck  in  from  boughs  lower  down 

56 


BOOK-SHELF 


and  higher  up  and  midway,  and  to  the  right  and  left,  and  from 
the  tree-tops;  and  others  arriving  hastily  from  the  grey  church 
turrets  and  old  belfry  window,  joined  the  clamor  which  rose  and 
fell,  and  swelled  and  dropped  again,  and  still  went  on;  and  all 
this  noisy  contention  amidst  a  skimming  to  and  fro,  and  light- 
ing on  fresh  branches,  and  frequent  change  of  place,  which 
satirized  the  old  restlessness  of  those  who  lay  so  still  beneath 
the  moss  and  turf  below,  and  the  strife  in  which  they  had  worn 
away  their  lives. 

Where  in  the  dull  eyes  of  doating  men  are  the  laughter  and 
light  of  childhood,  the  gaiety  that  has  known  no  check,  the  frank- 
ness that  has  felt  no  chill,  the  hope  that  has  never  withered,  the 
joys  that  fade  in  blossoming?     Where  in  the  sharp  lineaments 
of  rigid  and  unsightly  death  is  the  calm  beauty 
of  slumber,  telling  of  rest  for  the  waking  hours   Childhood  and  Age, 
that  are  past,  and  gentle  hopes  and   loves  for     Sleep  and  Death. 
those  which  are  to  come?     Lay  death  and  sleep 
down,  side  by  side,  and  say  who  shall  find  the  two  akin.     Send 
forth  the  child  and   childish  man   together,  and   blush  for   the 
pride  that  libels  our  own  old  happy  state,  and  gives  its  title  to 
an  ugly  and  distorted  image. 


S7 


MY      FAVORITE 

FRANKLIN     FROM 
PAUL     LEICESTER     FORD'S    WORK. 


"A  man,"  wrote  Franklin,  "  who  makes  boast  of  his  ances- 
tors doth  but  advertise  his  own  insignificance,  for  the  pedigrees 

of  great  men  are  commonly  known  " ;  and  else- 
Personahty  where  he  advised  :  "  Let  our  fathers  and  grand- 
Pedizree  fathers  be  valued  for  their  goodness,  ourselves 

for  our  own."  Clearly  this  objed:ion  extended 
to  pride  of  birth  alone,  and  not  to  knowledge  of  one's  forebears, 
for  Franklin  himself  displayed  not  a  little  interest  in  his  progen- 
itors, and  when  he  went  to  England  as  the  agent  of  his  colony, 
he  devoted  both  time  and  travel  to  searching  out  the  truth  con- 
cerning them.  Nor  was  he,  in  fad:,  wholly  without  conceit  of 
family.  In  default  of  discovered  greatness  in  his  kindred,  he 
expressed  pleasure  in  an  inference  that  the  family  name  was 
derived  from  the  old  social  order  of  small  freeholders,  and 
that,  therefore,  they  were  once  the  betters  of  the  yeomen  and 
feudatories. 

It  was  during  his  stay  in  France  that  he  gave  a  public  tes- 
timony to  the  value  he  set  upon  books.     A  town  in  Massachu- 
setts named  itself  "  Franklin,"  and  its  minister. 
Knowledge         the  Reverend  Nathanael  Emmons,  a  connexion 
l^ot  Noise.         of  Franklin,  wrote  to   him  and  asked  him  if  he 
would   not,  as  a  sort  of  sponsorial   present,  give 
the  town  a  bell  for  its  church,  to  be  placed  in  a  steeple  they  pro- 
posed  to   eredt.     "  I   have  advised  the  sparing  themselves  the 
expense   of  a  steeple,"  the   utilitarian  wrote   a   friend,  whom   he 
requested   to  sele6t  books  to  the  value  of  twenty-five  pounds, 
and  these  obtained,  he  sent  them  in  lieu  of  the  bell.    Apparently 
the  substitute  was  satisfactory,  for  the   minister  preached  a  ser- 
mon  on   the  gift,  and  when   it  was  printed,  the  dedicatory  page 
ran:   "To  his  Excellency,  Benjamin  Franklin,  President  of  the 

58 


BOOK-SHELF 


State  of  Pennsylvania,  the  Ornament  of  Genius,  the  Patron  of 
Science  and  the  Boast  of  Man,  this  Discourse  is  inscribed,  with 
the  greatest  deference,  humiHty  and  gratitude,  by  his  obHged 
and  most  humble  servant,  the  Author." 

His  library  was   his  chief  resource  in  the  last  years  of  his 
life,  when    his    malady  kept    him  within    doors,  and,   for    the 
most  part,  confined  to  his  bed.     "In  the  inter- 
vals of  pain  he  amused  himself  with  reading  and        „.    ^°  ^ 

.  .        f ,  ,  .  .  ,  ,     °      .  tils  Resource 

wntmg,     his  grandson  states  ;  and  another  wit-  ^^  j 

ness  chronicles  that,  "  When  able  to  be  out  of 
bed,  he  passed  nearly  all  his  time  in  his  office,  reading  and  writ- 
ing and  in  conversation  with  his  friends  ;  and  when  the  boys 
were  playing  and  very  noisy,  in  the  lot  in  front  of  the  office,  he 
would  open  the  window  and  call  to  them  :  '  Boys,  boys,  can't  you 
play  without  making  so  much  noise  ?  I  am  reading,  and  it  dis- 
turbs me  very  much.'  I  have  heard  the  servants  in  his  family 
say  that  he  never  used  a  hasty  or  angry  word  to  any  one." 

**  Some  men  grow  mad  by  studying  much  to  know. 
But  who  grows  mad  by  studying  good  to  grow  ? " 

asked  Poor  Richard,  and  the  same  epigram-maker  asserted  that 
'*  He  that  lives  well  is  learned  enough." 

On  January  6,  1706,  the  very  day  Franklin  was  born,  he  was 

baptized  in  the  Old  South  Church,  in  Boston.      If  trustworthy 

tradition  be  given  credence,  he  was  carried  thither 

through  the  deep  snow  by  his   mother,  and  this      .     ,  1^^/f  1     1 
a.       L-L  111       11J1-1       L  r  in  the  Old  South 

act,  which  now  would  be  held  little  short  or  mur-  church. 

der,  was  no  less  perilous  then,  as  is  proved  by  the 
fearful  death  rate  among  the  mothers  and  children  of  New  Eng- 
land. But  the  Calvanistic  faith  of  the  Puritans  maintained  that 
the  physical  danger  of  either  matricide  or  infanticide  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  spiritual  risk  of  the  babe  dying 
unbaptized,  and  so   convention   decreed  that  both    parent   and 

59 


MY      FAVORITE 


offspring   should   be  exposed  without  loss  of  time,  rather  than 
doom  the  little  one  to  eternal  damnation. 

Not  quite  six  weeks  before  his  death,  at  the  request  of  a 
friend,  he  wrote  out  what  he  had  come  to  believe: 

"You    desire    to    know  something  of  my 
Franklin' i         religion.      It  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  ques- 

Creed.  tioned  upon  it,  but  I  cannot  take  your  curiosity 

amiss  and  shall  endeavor  in  a  few  words  to 
gratify  it.  Here  is  my  creed  :  I  believe  in  one  God,  the  Creator 
of  the  Universe;  that  He  governs  it  by  His  Providence;  that 
He  ought  to  be  worshipped.  The  most  acceptable  service  that 
we  render  to  Him  is  doing  good  to  His  other  children.  The 
soul  of  man  is  immortal  and  will  be  treated  with  justice  in 
another  life  respecting  its  condudt  in  this.  These  I  take  to  be 
the  fundamental  points  in  all  sound  religion,  and  I  regard  them, 
as  you  do,  in  whatever  sedt  I  meet  with  them. 

"  As  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  my  opinion  of  whom  you  par- 
ticularly desire,  I  think  his  system  of  morals  and  his  religion,  as 
he  left  them  to  us,  the  best  the  world  ever  saw  or  is  like  to  see ; 
but  I  apprehend  it  has  received  various  corrupting  changes,  and 
I  have,  with  most  of  the  present  Dissenters  in  England,  some 
doubts  as  to  his  divinity,  though  it  is  a  question  I  do  not  dog- 
matize upon,  having  studied  it,  and  think  it  needless  to  busy 
myself  with  it  now,  when  I  expert  soon  an  opportunity  of 
knowing  the  truth  with  less  trouble.  I  see  no  harm,  however, 
in  its  being  believed,  if  that  belief  has  the  good  consequence,  as 
probably  it  has,  of  making  his  doctrines  more  respedled  and 
more  observed  ;  especially  as  I  do  not  perceive  that  the  Supreme 
takes  it  amiss,  bv  distinguishing  the  unbelievers  in  his  govern- 
ment of  the  world  with  any  peculiar  mark  of  displeasure.  I 
shall  only  add,  respecting  myself,  that  having  experienced  the 
goodness  of  that  Being  in  conducting  me  prosperously  through 
a  long  life,  I  have  no  doubt  of  its  continuance  in  the  next,  though 
without  the  smallest  conceit  of  meriting  such  goodness." 


60 


BOOK-SHELF 


This  was  written  while  FrankHn  was  suffering  almost  con- 
stant physical  torture,  which  he  endured,  so  an  eye-witness 
tells  us,  "  with  that  calm  fortitude  which  charafterized  him 
through  life."  No  repining,  no  peevish  expression,  ever 
escaped  him  during  a  confinement  of  two  years,  in  which,  I 
believe,  if  every  moment  of  ease  could  be  added  together,  it 
would  not  amount  to  two  whole  months.  Even  when  the 
intervals  of  pain  were  so  short  that  his  words  were  frequently 
interrupted,  1  have  known  him  to  hold  discourse  in  a  sublime 
strain  of  piety. 

To  judge  Frankin  from  the  literary  standpoint  is  neither 
easy  nor  quite  fair.  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  as  a  philosopher, 
as  a  statesman  and  as  a  friend,  he  owed  much  of 
his  success  to  his  ability  as  a  writer.  His  letters  His  Literary 
charmed  all,  and  made  his  correspondence  eagerly  Attainment. 
sought.  His  political  arguments  were  the  joy 
of  his  party  and  the  dread  of  his  opponents.  His  scientific  dis- 
coveries were  explained  in  language  at  once  so  simple  and  so 
clear  that  plow-boy  and  exquisite  could  follow  his  thought  or 
his  experiment  to  its  conclusion.  Yet  he  was  never  a  literary 
man  in  the  true  and  common  meaning  of  the  term.  Omitting 
his  uncompleted  autobiography  and  his  scientific  writings,  there 
is  hardly  a  line  of  his  pen  which  was  not  privately  or  anony- 
mously written,  to  exert  a  transient  influence,  fill  an  empty 
column,  or  please  a  friend.  The  larger  part  of  his  work 
was  not  only  done  in  haste,  but  never  revised  or  even  proof- 
read. Yet  this  self-educated  boy  and  busy,  pradical  man 
gave  to  American  literature  the  most  popular  autobiography 
ever  written,  a  series  of  political  and  social  satires  that  can 
bear  comparison  with  those  of  the  greatest  satirists,  a  private 
correspondence  as  readable  as  Walpole's  or  Chesterfield's ; 
and  the  coUedion  of  Poor  Richard's  epigrams  has  been  oftener 
printed  and  translated  than  any  other  produd;ion  of  an 
American  pen. 


6i 


MY      FAVORITE 


Of  this  life  he  has  left  a  pleasant  pidture  in  his  "  Dialogue 
with  the  Gout,"  in  which  the  disease  accuses  him  of  the  follow- 
ing condud: : 
Dialogue  GouT :      Let    us  examine    your   course  of 

with  the  Gout,  life.  While  the  mornings  are  long  and  you  have 
leisure  to  go  abroad,  what  do  you  do  ?  Why, 
instead  of  gaining  an  appetite  for  breakfast  by  salutary  exercise, 
vou  amuse  yourself  with  books,  pamphlets  or  newspapers,  which 
commonly  are  not  worth  the  reading.  Yet  you  eat  an  inordinate 
breakfast,  four  dishes  of  tea  with  cream,  and  one  or  two  buttered 
toasts,  with  slices  of  hung  beef,  which  I  fancy  are  not  things  the 
most  easily  digested.  Immediately  afterwards  you  sit  down  to 
write  at  your  desk  or  converse  with  persons  who  apply  to  you 
on  business.  Thus  the  time  passes  till  one,  without  any  kind  of 
bodily  exercise.  But  all  this  I  could  pardon,  in  regard,  as  you 
say,  to  your  sedentary  condition.  But  what  is  your  practise 
after  dinner?  Walking  in  the  beautiful  gardens  of  those  friends 
with  whom  you  have  dined  would  be  the  choice  of  men  of  sense  ; 
yours  is  to  be  fixed  down  to  chess,  where  you  are  found  to  be 
engaged  for  two  or  three  hours !  This  is  your  perpetual  recrea- 
tion, which  is  the  least  eligible  of  any  for  a  sedentary  man, 
because,  instead  of  accelerating  the  motion  of  the  fluids,  the  rigid 
attention  it  requires  helps  to  retard  the  circulation  and  obstrudl 
internal  secretions.  Wrapt  in  the  speculations  of  this  wretched 
game,  you  destroy  your  constitution.  What  can  be  expedled 
from  such  a  course  of  living  but  a  body  replete  with  stagnant 
humours,  ready  to  fall  a  prey  to  all  kinds  of  dangerous  maladies 
if  I,  the  Gout,  did  not  occasionally  bring  you  relief  by  agitating 
those  humours,  and  so  purifying  or  dissipating  them  '^. 

If  it  was  in  some  nook  or  alley  in  Paris,  deprived  of  walks, 
that  you  played  at  chess  after  dinner,  this  might  be  excusable  ; 
but  the  same  taste  prevails  with  you  in  Passy,  Auteuil,  Mont- 
martre  or  Sanoy,  places  where  there  are  the  finest  gardens  and 
walks,  a  pure  air,  beautiful  women  and  most  agreeable  and 
instructive  conversation,  all  which  you  might  enjoy  by  fre- 
quenting the  walks.      But  these  are  rejected  for  this  abominable 

62 


BOOK-SHELF 


game  of  chess.  Fie,  then,  Mr.  Franklin !  But  amidst  my 
instrudions  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  administer  my  wholesome 
corre(5tions  ;  so  take  that  twinge  —  and  that! 

Franklin:  Oh!  Eh!  Oh!  Ohoh !  As  much  instruc- 
tions as  you  please,  Madam  Gout,  and  as  many  reproaches  ;  but 
pray,  madam,  a  truce  with  your  corredions  ! 

Gout  :      Do  you  remember  how  often  you  have  promised 
yourself,  the  following  morning,  a  walk  in  the  grove  of  Boulogne, 
in  the  garden  of  de  la  Muette,  or  in  your  own 
garden,  and  have  violated  your  promise,  alleging  Dialogue 

at  one  time  it  was  too  cold,  at  another  too  warm,      «"'^^  ^^^  Gout. 
too  windy,  too  moist,  or  what  else  you  pleased, 
when  in  truth  it  was  too  nothing    but    your  insuperable  love 
of  ease  ? 

Franklin:  That,  1  confess,  may  have  happened  occa- 
sionally, probably  ten  times  in  a  year. 

Gout  :  Your  confession  is  very  far  short  of  the  truth ;  the 
gross  amount  is  one  hundred  and  ninety-nine  times. 

Franklin:     Is  it  possible  ? 

Gout:  So  possible  that  it  is  fad;  you  may  rely  on  the 
accuracy  of  my  statement.  You  know  Mr.  Brillon's  gardens, 
and  what  fine  walks  they  contain  ;  you  know  the  handsome 
flight  of  an  hundred  steps,  which  lead  from  the  terrace  above  to 
the  lawn  below.  You  have  been  in  the  pradise  of  visiting  this 
amiable  family  twice  a  week  after  dinner,  and  as  it  is  a  maxim  of 
your  own  that  "  a  man  may  take  as  much  exercise  in  walking  a 
mile  up  and  down  stairs  as  in  ten  on  level  ground,"  what  an 
opportunity  was  here  for  you  to  have  had  exercise  in  both  these 
ways!      Did  you  embrace  it,  and  how  often? 

Franklin  :      I   cannot   immediately  answer  that  question. 

Gout  :      I  will  do  it  for  you  ;  not  once. 

Franklin  :     Not  once  ? 

Gout  :  Even  so.  During  the  summer  you  went  there  at 
six  o'clock.  You  found  the  charming  lady,  with  her  lovely 
children  and  friends,  eager  to  walk  with  you  and  entertain  you 
with    their    agreeable    conversation  ;    and  what    has  been    your 

63 


MY     FAVORITE 


choice?  Why,  to  sit  on  the  terrace,  satisfying  yourself  with  the 
fine  prospect,  and  passing  your  eye  over  the  beauties  of  the  gar- 
den below,  without  taking  one  step  to  descend  and  walk  about 
in  them.  On  the  contrary,  you  call  for  tea  and  the  chess-board  ; 
and  lo !  you  are  occupied  in  your  seat  till  nine  o'clock,  and  that 
besides  two  hours  play  after  dinner;  and  then,  instead  of  walk- 
ing home,  which  would  have  bestirred  you  a  little,  you  step  into 
your  carriage.  How  absurd  to  suppose  that  all  this  carelessness 
can  be  reconcilable  with  health  without  my  interposition  ! 

Franklin:  I  am  convinced  now  of  the  justness  of  Poor 
Richard's  remark,  that  "  Our  debts  and  our  sins  are  always 
greater  than  we  think  for." 


64 


BOOK-SHELF 


F  R  O  U  D  E. 


I  admire  that  ancient  rule  of  the  Jews  that  every  man,  no 
matter  of  what  grade  or  calling,  shall  learn  some  handicraft;  that 
the  man  of  intelleft,  while,  like  St.  Paul,  he  is  teaching  the 
world,  yet,  like  St.  Paul,  he  may  be  burdensome  to  no  one.  A 
man  was  not  considered  entitled  to  live  if  he 
could  not  keep  himself  from  starving.  slZI h/v"  a 

Trade. 

Surely  those  university  men  who  had  taken 
honors,  breaking  stone  on  an  Australian  road,  were  sorry  spec- 
tacles ;  and  still  more  sorry  and  disgraceful  is  the  outcry  coming 
by  every  mail  from  our  colonies  :  "  Send  us  no  more  of  what 
you  call  educated  men  ;  send  us  smiths,  masons,  carpenters,  day- 
laborers  ;  all  of  those  will  thrive,  will  earn  their  eight,  ten  or 
twelve  shillings  a  day ;  but  your  educated  man  is  a  log  on  our 
hands;  he  loafs  in  uselessness  till  his  means  are  spent,  he  then 
turns  billiard-marker,  enlists  as  a  soldier,  or  starves,"  It  hurts 
no  intelled  to  be  able  to  make  a  boat  or  a  house,  or  a  pair  of 
shoes  or  a  suit  of  clothes,  or  hammer  a  horse-shoe ;  and  if  you 
can  do  either  of  these,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  fortune. 
"  I  will  work  with  my  hands,  and  keep  my  brain  for  myself," 
said  some  one  proudly,  when  it  was  proposed  to  him  that  he 
should  make  a  profession  of  literature.  Spinoza,  the  most  pow- 
erful intelledual  worker  that  Europe  had  produced  during  the 
last  two  centuries,  waving  aside  the  pensions  and  legacies  that 
were  thrust  upon  him,  chose  to  maintain  himself  by  grinding 
objed-glasses  for  microscopes  and  telescopes. 

Now,  without  taking  a  transcendental  view  of  the  matter, 
literature  happens  to  be  the  only  occupation  in  which  the  wages 
are  not  in  proportion  to  the  goodness  of  the  work  done.  It  is 
not  that  they  are  generally  small,  but  the  adjustment  of  them 

65 


MY      FAVORITE 


is  awry.      It  is  true  that  in  all  callings  nothing  great  will  be  pro- 
duced if  the  first  objed:  be  what  you  can  make  by  them.    To  do 
what  you  do  well  should  be  the  first  thing,  the 
Ltterature     ot      vvages  the  second ;  but  except  in  the  instances 

Pata  in  Frotortton       r       \  •    \     i  i-  i  i        r 

to  Its  Worth.  °^  which  I  am  speakmg,  the  rewards  or  a  man 
are  in  proportion  to  his  skill  and  industry. 
The  best  carpenter  receives  the  highest  pay.  The  better  he 
works,  the  better  for  his  prosped:s.  The  best  lawyer,  the  best 
dodor,  commands  most  practise  and  makes  the  largest  fortune. 
But  with  literature,  a  different  element  is  introduced  into  the 
problem. 

The  present  rule  on  which  authors  are  paid  is  by  the  page 
and  the  sheet;  the  more  words,  the  more  pay.  It  ought  to  be 
Great  Literars  exadly  the  reverse.  Great  poetry,  great  philoso- 
Work  is  the  Fruit  of  phy,  great  scientific  discovery,  every  intellediual 
Long  Thought  and  production  which  has  genius,  work,  and  perma- 
Patient  and  Painful  nence  in  it,  is  the  fruit  of  long  thought,  and  patient 
Elaboration.  ^^^  painful  elaboration.  Work  of  this  kind, 
done  hastily,  would  be  better  not  done  at  all.  When  completed, 
it  will  be  small  in  bulk ;  it  will  address  itself  for  a  long  time  to  the 
few  and  not  to  the  many.  The  reward  for  it  will  not  be  meas- 
urable, and  not  obtainable  in  money  except  after  many  genera- 
tions, when  the  brain  out  of  which  it  was  spun  has  long  returned 
to  its  dust.  Only  by  accident  is  a  work  of  genius  immediately 
popular,  in  the  sense  of  being  widely  bought.  No  colledled 
edition  of  Shakespeare's  plays  was  demanded  in  Shakespeare's 
life.  iMilton  received  five  pounds  for  "  Paradise  Lost."  The 
distilled  essence  of  the  thought  of  Bishop  Butler,  the  greatest 
prelate  that  the  English  Church  ever  produced,  fills  a  moderate- 
sized  o6tavo  volume;  Spinoza's  works,  including  his  surviving 
letters,  fill  but  three;  and  though  they  have  revolutionized  the 
philosophy  of  Europe,  have  no  attractions  for  the  multitude. 
A  really  great  man  has  to  create  the  taste  with  which  he  is  to 
be  enjoyed.  There  are  splendid  exceptions  of  merit  eagerly  recog- 
nized and  early  rewarded  —  our  honored   English  Laureate   for 

66 


BOOK-SHELF 


instance,  Alfred  Tennyson,  or  your  own  countryman,  Thomas 
Carlyle.  Yet  even  Tennyson  waited  through  ten  years  of  depre- 
ciation before   poems  which  are  now  on  every 

one's  lips  passed  into  a  second  edition.     Carlyle,  Carlyle  s 

,  *      ^  ,  ,  /  .  Iranscendent 

whose   transcendent   powers  were  welcomed   m  Genius 

their  infancy  by  Goethe,  who  long  years  ago  was 

recognized  by  statesmen  and  thinkers  in  both  hemispheres  as 

the  most  remarkable  of  living  men  ;  yet,  if  success  be  measured 

by  what  has   been   paid   him   for  his  services,  stands  far  below 

your   Belgravian   novelist.     A  hundred    years    hence,  perhaps, 

people  at  large  will   begin  to  understand   how  vast  a  man  has 

been  among  them. 

If  you    make    literature  a  trade    to  live    by,  you  will  be 
tempted  always  to  take  your  talents  to  the  most  profitable  mar- 
ket ;  and  the  most  profitable  market,  will  be  no     Uard  Conditions 
assurance  to  you   that  you  are  making  a  noble       Under  Which 
or  even  a  worthy  use  of  them.      Better  a  thou-  Impecunious  Talent 
sand   times,  if  your  objed;  is  to  advance   your  Works. 

position  in  life,  that  you  should  choose  some  other  calling  of 
which  making  money  is  a  legitimate  aim,  and  where  your  success 
will  vary  as  the  goodness  of  your  work ;  better  for  yourselves, 
for  your  consciences,  for  your  own  souls,  as  we  use  to  say,  and 
for  the  world  you  live  in. 

Therefore,  I  say,  if  any  of  you  choose  this  mode  of  spend- 
ing your  existence,  choose  it  deliberately,  with  a  full  knowledge 
of  what  you  are  doing.  Reconcile  yourselves  to  the  condition 
of  the  old  scholars.  Make  up  your  minds  to  be  poor ;  care 
only  for  what  is  true  and  right  and  good.  On  those  conditions 
you  may  add  something  real  to  the  intellectual  stock  of  man- 
kind, and  mankind  in  return  may  perhaps  give  you  bread 
enough  to  live  upon,  though  bread  extremely  thinly  spread 
with  butter. 

Inaugural  Address  at  the  University 
OF  St.  Andrew's. 


67 


MY      FAVORITE 


The  thing  which  has  taken  root  and  become  strong  has 
thriven  only  because  it  had  Hfe  in  it  —  and  the   question  which 

we  ought  to  ask  of  any  organized  system,  poHti- 

The  Quick  and      cal  or  spiritual,  is  not  whether  it  is  good  or  evil, 

the  Dead.  but  whether  it  is  alive   or  dead.      If  it  is  alive, 

we  may  take  the  rest  for  granted.  Age  follows 
age,  families  remain  from  father  to  son  on  the  same  spot  and 
subje(::ted  to  the  same  conditions.  Where  the  conditions  work 
to  create  happiness,  favorable  impressions  are  formed  and  are 
handed  on,  and  deepen  with  the  progress  of  the  years.  Where 
they  work  ill,  displeasure,  at  first  imperceptible,  changes  to  anger 
and  then  to  impatience,  and  then  to  scorn  and  rage,  and  adive 
enmity.  The  spectator,  looking  back  from  a  distant  period, 
sees  a  worthless  government  tyrannising  for  generations,  or  sees 
an  exploded  creed  continuing  to  mislead  the  world  after  every 
ad:ive  mind  has  divined  its  falsehood.  He  is  impatient  for  the 
catastrophe.  He  wonders  how  men  of  sense  could  bear  so  long 
with  the  intolerable.  He  thanks  God  with  snug  self-satisfac- 
tion that  he  is  not  such  a  fool  as  his  ancestors.  Nature,  happily, 
is  more  enduring  than  we  are  ;  or  rather  we,  wise  as  we  think 
ourselves,  are  in  turn  bearing  unconsciously  with  theories  and 
systems  which  philosophers  will  equally  see  to  have  been  at  this 
moment  dying  or  dead,  and  they  will  meditate  on  our  patience 
with  equal  perplexity  or  with  equal  self-complacence. 

Religions  which   have  exerted  a  real  influence  over  masses 

of  mankind   have   always  begun  in  genuine  conviftion.      They 

have  contained   an    answer    to  questions  which 

Re  igtons     uit  e    ,^^^  were   anxiously   asking  at   the    time  when 

Baied  Upon  ,  .    .  ,  y  l-    i       i  j 

Genuine  Conviaion.  they  origmated,  and  to  which  they  appeared  to 
give  a  credible  reply. 
Once  accepted,  they  petrify  into  unchanging  forms.  Knowl- 
edge increases ;  religion  remains  stationary.  Fresh  problems 
rise,  for  which  they  provide  no  solution,  or  a  solution  transpar- 
ently false;  and  then  follow  the  familiar  phenomena  of  disinte- 
gration  and   failing  sanations  and  relaxed  rule  of  adlion,  and, 

68 


BOOK-SHELF 


along  with  these,  the  efforts  of  well-meaning  men  to  resist  the 
irresistible  —  reconciliations  of  religion  and  science,  natural  the- 
ologies reconstruded  on  philosophic  bases,  with  at  intervals 
unavailing  efforts  to  conceal  the  cracks  in  the  theory  by  elabo- 
rate restorations  of  ritual ;  or  again,  on  the  other  side,  the  firm 
avowal  of  disbelief  from  the  more  sincere  and  resolute  minds, 
such  as  rings  out  in  the  lines  of  Lucretius. 

With  Lucretius  we  are  all  familiar:  not  less  interesting  — 
perhaps  more  interesting,  as  showing  the  working  of  more  com- 
monplace   intelled:s  —  is    the    treatise   "On   the 
Nature  of  Gods,"  which  Cicero  wrote  almost  at    .   ..^  '^  ff  n^f    » 

.  ',  .  .  Indifferent  to  Man  s 

the   same  time  when   Lucretms  was  composmg  interests. 

his  poem,  and  which  contains  the  opinions  of  the 
better  sort  of  educated  Romans.  That  such  a  dialogue  should 
have  been  written  by  a  responsible  and  respectable  person  in 
Cicero's  position,  is  itself  a  proof  that  religion  was  at  its  last 
gasp.  Tradition  had  utterly  broken  down:  serious  men  were 
looking  in  the  face  the  fads  of  their  situation,  and  were  asking 
from  experience  what  rule  they  were  living  under ;  and  experi- 
ence gave,  and  always  must  give,  but  one  reply.  Men  are 
taught  to  believe  in  an  overruling  Providence;  they  look  for 
evidence  of  it,  and  they  find  that,  so  far  as  human  power  extends 
over  nature  there  are  traces  of  a  moral  government;  but  that  it 
is  such  a  government  as  man  himself  establishes  for  the  protec- 
tion of  society,  and  nothing  more.  To  what  we  call  good  and 
evil,  nature  as  such  is  indifferent,  and  nature  submits  to  man's 
control,  not  as  he  is  just  or  unjust,  believing  or  sceptical,  but 
as  he  understands  the  laws  by  which  the  operations  of  nature 
are  direc5led.  The  piety  of  the  captain  does  not  save  his  ship 
from  the  reefs.  He  depends  on  his  knowledge  of  navigation. 
Prayer  does  not  avert  the  pestilence;  but  an  understanding  of 
the  conditions  of  health.  The  lightning  strikes  the  church,  but 
spares  the  gambling  house  provided  with  a  conducting  rod. 

Disease  and  misfortune,  or  the  more  mighty  visitations  of  the 
earthquake,  the  famine,  the  inundation,  make  no  distinction 
between  the  deserving  and  the  base.     The  house  falls  and  spares 

69 


MY      FAVORITE 


the  fool,  while  it  cuts  short  a  career  which  might  have  been 
precious  to  all  mankind.  This  is  the  truth  so  far  as  experience 
can  teach ;  and  only  timidity  or  ignorance,  or  a  resolution,  like 
that  of  Job's  friends,  to  be  more  just  than  God,  can  venture  to 
deny  it ;  and  thus  arises  the  dismayed  exclamation  which  has 
burst  in  all  ages  from  the  hearts  of  noble-minded  men:  Why 
are  the  wicked  in  such  prosperity?  Not  that  they  envy  the 
wicked  any  miserable  enjoyment  which  they  may  obtain  for 
themselves,  but  because  they  see  that  all  things  come  alike  to 
all,  and  that  there  is  no  difference  —  that  as  it  is  with  the  wise 
man,  so  it  is  with  the  fool ;  as  with  him  that  sacrifices,  so  with 
him  that  sacrifices  not.  The  manifest  disregard  of  moral  dis- 
tin(5lions  discredits  their  confidence  in  Providence,  and  sends  a 
shuddering  misgiving  through  them  that  no  such  power  as  a 
moral  providence  exists  anywhere  beyond  themselves. 

Young  men,  as  we  know,  are  more  easily  led  than  driven. 

It  is  a  very  old  story  that  to  forbid  this  and  that  (so  curious  and 

contradictory    is   our   nature)   is   to  stimulate  a 

L    ^  f '^  n'^  ^r    i;    deslre  to  do  it.      But  place  before  a  boy  a  figure 

the  On/y  Profitable      ^  ,  ,  i  i  •  •  i  •    i 

Teaching.  °*  ^  ^oble  man  ;  let  the  circumstances  m  which 
he  has  earned  his  claim  to  be  called  noble  be 
such  as  the  boy  himself  sees  around  himself;  let  him  see  this 
man  rising  over  his  temptation,  and  following  life  victoriously 
and  beautifully  forward,  and,  depend  on  it,  you  will  kindle 
his  heart  as  no  threat  of  punishment  here  or  anywhere  will 
kindle  it. 

In  life,  as  in  art,  and  as  in  mechanics,  the  only  profitable 
teaching  is  the  teaching  by  example.  Your  mathematician,  or 
your  man  of  science,  may  discourse  excellently  on  the  steam- 
engine,  yet  he  cannot  make  one;  he  cannot  make  a  bolt  or 
a  screw.  The  master  workman  in  the  engine-room  does  not  teach 
his  apprentice  the  theory  of  expansion  or  of  atmospheric  pres- 
sure; he  guides  his  hand  upon  the  turncock,  he  pradiises  his 
eye   upon  the  index,  and  he   leaves   the  science  to  follow  when 

70 


BOOK-SHELF 


the  pradlise  has  become  mechanical.  So  it  is  with  everything 
which  man  learns  to  do ;  and  yet  for  the  art  of  arts,  the  trade  of 
trades,  for  life,  we  content  ourselves  with  teaching  our  children 
the  catechism  and  the  commandments;  we  preach  them  ser- 
mons on  the  good  of  being  good,  and  the  evil  of  being  evil ;  in 
our  higher  education  we  advance  to  the  theory  of  habit  and  the 
freedom  of  the  will ;  and  then,  when  failure  follows  failure,  we 
hug  ourselves  with  a  complacent  self-satisfied  refledion  that  the 
fault  is  not  ours,  that  all  which  men  could  do  we  have  done. 
The  freedom  of  the  will!  —  as  if  a  blacksmith  would  ever  teach 
a  boy  to  make  a  horseshoe,  by  telling  him  he  could  make  one 
if  he  chose. 


71 


MY      FAVORITE 

GOLDSMITH. 


From  such  a  picture  of  nature  in  primeval  simplicity,  tell 
me,  my  much-respe6led  friend,  are  you  in  love  with  fatigue  and 
solitude?  Do  you  sigh  for  the  severe  frugality 
The  Vices  of  of  the  wandering  Tartar,  or  regret  being  born 
Nations.  amidst    the     luxury    and    dissimulation    of    the 

polite?  Rather  tell  me,  has  not  every  kind  of 
life  vices  peculiarly  its  own  ?  Is  it  not  a  truth,  that  refined 
countries  have  more  vices,  but  those  not  so  terrible;  barbarous 
nations  few,  and  they  of  the  most  hideous  complexion  ?  Perfidy 
and  fraud  are  the  vices  of  civilized  nations,  credulity  and  vio- 
lence those  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  desert.  Does  the  luxury 
of  the  one  produce  half  the  evils  of  the  inhumanity  of  the  other? 
Certainly,  those  philosophers  who  disclaim  against  luxury  have 
but  little  understood  its  benefits;  they  seem  insensible,  that  to 
luxury  we  owe  not  only  the  greatest  part  of  our  knowledge,  but 
even  of  our  virtues. 

It  may  sound  fine  in  the  mouth  of  a  declaimer,  when  he 
talks  of  subduing  our  appetites,  of  teaching  every  sense  to  be 
content  with  a  bare  sufficiency,  and  of  supplying  only  the  wants 
of  nature;  but  is  there  not  more  satisfaction  in  indulging  those 
appetites,  if  with  innocence  and  safety,  than  in  restraining  them? 
Am  I  not  better  pleased  in  enjoyment,  than  in  the  sullen  satis- 
faction of  thinking  that  I  can  live  without  enjoyment?  The 
more  various  our  artificial  necessities,  the  wider  is  our  circle  of 
pleasure  ;  for  all  pleasure  consists  in  obviating  necessities  as  they 
rise ;  luxury,  therefore,  as  it  increases  our  wants,  increases  our 
capacity  for  happiness.  » 

Examine  the  history  of  any  country  remarkable  for  opu- 
lence and  wisdom,  you  will  find  they  would  never  have  been 
wise  had  they  not  been  first  luxurious ;  you  will  find  poets, 
philosophers,  and    even    patriots,  marching    in    luxury's    train. 

72 


BOOK-SHELF 


The  reason  is  obvious  :  we  then  only  are  curious  after  knowl- 
edge, when  we  find  it  connected  with  sensual  happiness.     The 
senses   ever   point  out   the  way,  and   refle(ition 
comments  upon  the  discovery.     Inform  a  native        Luxury  and 
of  the  desert  of  Kobi,  of  the  exad:  measure  of  Wisdom. 

the  parallax  of  the  moon,  he  finds  no  satisfaction 
at  all  in  the  information  ;  he  wonders  how  any  one  could  take 
such  pains,  and  lay  out  such  treasure,  in  order  to  solve  so  useless 
a  difficulty;  but  conneft  it  with  his  happiness,  by  showing  that 
it  improves  navigation,  that  by  such  an  investigation  he  may 
have  a  warmer  coat,  a  better  gun,  or  a  finer  knife,  and  he  is 
instantly  in  raptures  at  so  great  an  improvement.  In  short,  we 
only  desire  to  know  what  we  desire  to  possess;  and  whatever 
we  may  talk  against  it,  luxury  adds  the  spur  to  curiosity,  and 
gives  us  a  desire  of  becoming  more  wise. 

But  not  our  knowledge  only,  but  our  virtues,  are  improved 
by  luxury.     Observe  the  brown  savage  of  Thibet,  to  whom  the 
fruits  of  the  spreading  pomegranate  supply  food, 
and  its  branches  a  habitation.     Such  a  character         ,    "'^"^j  b 
has  few  vices,  I  grant,  but  those  he  has  are  of  Luxury. 

the  most  hideous  nature:  rapine  and  cruelty 
are  scarcely  crimes  in  his  eye ;  neither  pity  nor  tenderness, 
which  ennoble  every  virtue,  have  any  place  in  his  heart ;  he 
hates  his  enemies  and  kills  those  he  subdues.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  polite  Chinese  and  civilized  European  seem  to  love 
their  enemies. 

I  have  just  now  seen  an  instance  where  the  English  have 
succored  those  enemies,  whom  their  own  countrymen  adlually 
refused  to  relieve. 

The  greater  the  luxuries  of  every  country,  the  more  closely, 
politically  speaking,  is  that  country  united.  Luxury  is  the  child 
of  society  alone.  The  luxurious  man  stands  in  need  of  a  thou- 
sand different  artists  to  furnish  out  his  happiness ;  it  is  more 
likely,  therefore,  that  he  should  be  a  good  citizen,  who  is  con- 
nected by  motives  of  self-interest  with  so  many,  than  the  abste- 
mious man  who  is  united  to  none. 

73 


MY      FAVORITE 


In  whatsoever  light,  therefore,  we  consider  luxury,  whether 
as  employing  a  number  ot  hands,  naturally  too  feeble  for  a  more 
laborious  employment ;  as  finding  a  variety  of  occupation  for 
others  who  might  be  totally  idle,  or  as  furnishing  out  new  inlets 
to  happiness  without  encroaching  on  mutual  property  ;  in  what- 
ever light  we  regard  it,  we  shall  have  reason  to  stand  up  in  its 
defense,  and  the  sentiment  of  Confucius  still  remains  unshaken  : 
"That  we  should  enjoy  as  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life  as  are 
consistent  with  our  own  safety  and  the  prosperity  of  others  ; 
and  that  he  who  finds  out  a  new  pleasure  is  one  of  the  most 
useful  members  of  society." 

Age,  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life,  increases  our  desire 

of  living.      Those  dangers,  which  in  the  vigor  of  youth,  we  had 

learned   to   despise,  assume    new   terrors   as  we 

4  7  i 

h    T^''^-^''^^f      grow  old.     Our  caution  increasing  as  our  years 
Livinz.  increase,  fear  becomes  at  last  the  prevailing  pas- 

sion of  the  mind;  and  the  small  remainder  of 
life  is  taken  up  in  useless  efforts  to  keep  off  our  end,  or  provide 
for  a  continued  existence. 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to  which  even  the 
wise  are  liable!  If  I  should  judge  of  that  part  of  life  which  lies 
before  me,  by  that  which  I  have  already  seen,  the  prospedt  is 
hideous.  Experience  tells  me,  that  my  past  enjoyments  have 
brought  no  real  felicity;  and  sensation  assures  me,  that  those 
I  have  felt  are  stronger  than  those  which  are  yet  to  come.  Yet 
experience  and  sensation  in  vain  persuade;  hope,  more  powerful 
than  either,  dresses  out  the  distant  prospe(5l  in  fancied  beauty, 
some  happiness  in  long  perspedive  still  beckons  me  to  pursue, 
and,  like  a  losing  gamester,  every  new  disappointment  increases 
my  ardor  to  continue  the  game. 

Whence,  my  friend,  this  increased  love  of  life,  which  grows 
upon  us  with  our  years  —  whence  comes  it,  that  we  thus  make 
greater  efforts  to  preserve  our  existence,  at  a  period  when  it 
becomes  scarcely  worth  the  keeping?  Is  it  that  nature,  attentive 
to  the  preservation   of   mankind,  increases  our  wishes  to  live, 

74 


BOOK-SHELF 


while  she  lessens  our  enjoyments,  and,  as  she  robs  the  senses 
of  every  pleasure,  equips  imagination  in  the  spoil?  Life  would 
be  insupportable  to  an  old  man,  who,  loaded  with  infirmities, 
feared  death  no  more  than  in  the  vigor  of  manhood;  the  num- 
berless calamities  of  decaying  nature,  and  the  consciousness  of 
surviving  every  pleasure,  would  at  once  induce  him,  with  his 
own  hand,  to  terminate  the  scene  of  misery;  but  happily  the 
contempt  of  death  forsakes  him,  at  a  time  when  it  could  be  only 
prejudicial;  and  life  acquires  an  imaginary  value,  in  proportion 
as  its  real  value  is  no  more. 

Our  attachment  to  every  obje6t  around  us  increases,  in 
general,  from  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  with  it.  "  I  would 
not  choose,"  says  a  French  philosopher,  "to  see  an  old  post 
pulled  up  with  which  I  had  been  long  acquainted."  A  mind 
long  habituated  to  a  certain  set  of  objects,  insensibly  becomes 
fond  of  seeing  them ;  visits  them  from  habit,  and  parts  from 
them  with  reludlance;  hence  the  avarice  of  the  old  in  every  kind 
of  possession.  They  love  the  world  and  all  that  it  produces ; 
they  love  life  and  all  its  advantages,  not  because  it  gives  them 
pleasure,  but  because  they  have  known  it  long. 

There   is  an  unspeakable  pleasure  attending  the  life  of  a 
volunteer  student.     The  first  time   I  read  an  excellent  book  it 
is  to  me  just  as  if  I   had  gained   a  new  friend. 
When  I  read  over  a  book  I  have  perused  before        Friendship  in 
it  resembles  the  meeting  with  an  old  one.     We  Books. 

ought  to  lay  hold  of  every  incident  of  life  for 
improvement,  the  trifling  as  well  as  the  important.  It  is  not 
one  diamond  alone  which  gives  lustre  to  another;  a  common 
coarse  stone  is  also  employed  for  that  purpose.  Thus  I  ought 
to  draw  advantage  from  the  insults  and  contempt  I  meet  with 
from  a  worthless  fellow.  His  brutality  ought  to  induce  me  to 
self-examination,  and  corred:  every  blemish  that  may  have  given 
rise  to  calumny. 


IS 


MY      FAVORITE 


ROBERT     GRANT. 


Those  of  us  who  are  in  the  thick,  of  life  are  apt  to  forget  to 

take  down  from   our  shelves  the  comrades  we  loved  when  we 

were  twenty-one  —  the  essayists,  the  historians, 

emora  ijctng       ^^  poets  and  novelists  whose  delightful  pages 

influence  of  Trashy  \       ^•  r    i  11 

Literature.     '    ^^^  ^"^  literature  or  the  world. 

An  evening  at  home  with  Shakespeare  is 
not  the  depressing  experience  which  some  clever  people  imagine. 
One  rises  from  the  feast  to  go  to  bed  with  all  one's  aesthetic 
being  refreshed  and  fortified  as  though  one  had  inhaled  oxygen. 
What  a  contrast  this  to  the  stuffy  taste  in  the  roof  of  the  mouth, 
and  the  weary,  dejed:ed  frame  of  mind  which  follows  the  perusal 
of  much  of  the  current  literature  which  cozening  booksellers 
have  induced  the  book  club  secretary  to  buy! 

A  very  little  newspaper  reading  and  a  limited  amount  of 
seleded  reading  will  leave  time  for  the  hobby  or  avocation. 
Every  man  or  woman  ought  to  have  one;  something  apart  from 
business,  profession  or  housekeeping,  in  which  he  or  she  is 
interested  as  a  study  or  pursuit.  In  this  age  of  the  world  it 
may  well  take  the  form  of  educational,  economic  or  philanthropic 
investigation  or  co-operation,  if  individual  tastes  happen  to 
incline  one  to  such  work.  The  prominence  of  such  matters  in 
our  present  civilization  is,  of  course,  a  magnet  favorable  to  such 
a  choice.  In  this  way  one  can,  as  it  were,  kill  two  birds  with 
one  stone,  develop  one's  own  resources  and  perform  one's  duty 
toward  the  public.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  will  be  many 
who  have  no  sense  of  fitness  for  this  service,  and  whose  predi- 
ledtions  lead  them  toward  art,  science,  literature  or  some  of  their 
ramifications.  The  amateur  photographer,  the  extender  of 
books,  the  observer  of  birds,  are  alike  among  the  faithful.  To 
have  one  hobby,  and  not  three  or  four,  and  to  persevere  slowly 
but  steadily  in  the  fulfilment  of  one's  selection,  is  an  important 

76 


BOOK-SHELF 


faftor  in  the  wise  disposal  of  time.  It  is  a  truism  to  declare 
that  a  few  minutes  in  every  day  allotted  to  the  same  piece  of 
work  will  accomplish  wonders;  but  the  result  of  trying  will 
convince  the  incredulous.  Indeed,  one's  avocation  should 
progress  and  prevail  by  force  of  spare  minutes  allotted  daily  and 
continuously;  just  so  much  and  no  more,  so  as  not  to  crowd 
out  the  other  claimants  for  consideration.  Fifteen  minutes 
before  breakfast,  or  between  kissing  the  children  good-night  and 
the  evening  meal,  or  even  every  other  Saturday  afternoon  and  a 
part  of  every  holiday,  will  make  one's  hobby  look  well  fed  and 
sleek  at  the  end  of  a  few  years. 

Was  ever  an  American  mother,  who  knew  anything,  por- 
trayed in  fidion.?  The  American  daughter  is  commonly  pre- 
sented as  a  noble-souled,  original  creature,  whose  7-^^  Average 
principal  mission  in  life,  next  to  or  incidental  to  American  Daugh- 
refusing  the  man  who  is  not  her  choice,  is  to  let  ter' s  Opinion  of 
her  own  parents  understand  what  weak,  ignorant,  ^^^  Parents. 
foolish,  unenlightened  persons  they  are  in  comparison  with  the 
rising  generation  —  both  parents  in  some  measure,  but  chiefly 
and  utterly  the  mother.  She  is  usually  willing  to  concede  that 
her  father  has  a  few  glimmering  ideas,  and  a  certain  amount  of 
horse-sense  business  sense,  not  very  elevating  or  inspiring,  yet 
something  withal.  But  she  looks  upon  her  poor  dear  mother 
as  a  feeble-minded  individual  of  the  first  water.  What  we  read 
in  contemporary  fid:ion  in  this  realistic  age  is  apt  to  be  photo- 
graphed from  existing  conditions.  The  newly  created  species 
of  our  homes  does  not  always  reveal  these  sentiments  in  so 
many  words;  indeed,  she  is  usually  disposed  to  conceal  from  her 
parents  as  far  as  possible  their  own  shortcomings,  believing 
often,  with  ostrichlike  complacency,  that  they  have  no  idea  what 
she  really  thinks  of  them.  Quite  frequently  late  in  life  it  dawns 
upon  her  that  they  were  not  such  complete  imbeciles  as  she  had 
adjudged  them,  and  she  revises  her  convi6tions  accordingly. 
But  often  she  lives  superior  to  the  end.  It  would  be  an 
excellent  thing  for  the  American  girl  if  her  eyes  could  be  defi- 

17 


MY      FAVORITE 


nitely  opened  to  the  fad  that  her  parents,  particularly  her  mother, 
are  much  more  clever  than  she  supposes,  and  that  they  are 
reallv  her  best  counsellors.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  is  not  the 
American  mother  herself  chiefly  responsible  for  this  attitude  of 
loving  contempt  and  sweet  but  unfilial  condescension  on  the 
part  of  her  own  flesh  and  blood?  It  sometimes  seems  as  though 
we  had  fallen  vidims  to  our  reludlance  to  thwart  our  children  in 
any  way  lest  we  should  destroy  their  love  for  us.  But  is  it 
much  preferable  to  be  loved  devotedly  as  foolish,  weak  and 
amiable  old  things,  than  to  be  feared  a  little  as  individuals 
capable  of  exercising  authority  and  having  opinions  of  our  own.^ 

The    extraordinary    personality    of    Abraham     Lincoln    is 

undoubtedly  the  best  apotheosis  yet  presented  of  unadulterated 

Americanism.     In  him  the  native  stock  was  free 

,      ""  ,        from    the    foreign     influences    and     suggestions 

thf    [sttcol  .  "  cio 

American  which  aff^edied,  more  or  less,  the  people  of  the 

East.  His  origin  was  of  the  humblest  sort, 
and  yet  he  presented  saliently  in  his  character  the  naturalness, 
nobility  and  aspiring  energy  of  the  nation.  He  made  the  most 
of  himself  by  virtue  of  unusual  abilities,  yet  the  keynote  of  their 
influence  and  force  was  a  noble  simplicity  and  far-sighted  inde- 
pendence. In  him  the  quintessence  of  the  Americanism  of 
thirty  years  ago  was  summed  up  and  expressed.  In  many  ways 
he  was  a  riddle  at  first  to  the  people  of  the  cities  of  the  East  in 
that,  though  their  soul  was  his  soul,  his  ways  had  almost  ceased 
to  be  their  ways;  but  he  stands  before  the  world  today  as  the 
foremost  interpreter  of  American  ideas  and  American  temper  of 
thought  as  they  then  existed. 


78 


BOOK-SHELF 

REMINISCENCES   AND   RECOLLECTIONS 
OF    CAPTAIN    GRONOW. 


Amongst  the  curious  freaks  of  fortune  there  is  none  more 
remarkable  in  my  memory  than  the  sudden  appearance,  in  the 
highest  and  best  society  in  London,  of  a  young  man  whose  ante- 
cedents warranted  a  much  less  conspicuous  career:  I  refer  to  the 
famous  Beau  Brummell. 

We  have  innumerable  instances  of  soldiers,  lawyers,  and 
men  of  letters,  elevating    themselves   from    the    most   humble 
stations,  and  becoming  the  companions  of  princes 
and  lawgivers ;  but  'there  are  comparatively  few     ^^^^  Brummell, 
examples  of  men  obtaining  a  similarly  elevated  Parasite 

position  simply  from  their  attractive  personal 
appearance  and  fascinating  manners.  Brummell's  father,  who 
was  a  steward  to  one  or  two  large  estates,  sent  his  son  George  to 
Eton.  He  was  endowed  with  a  handsome  person,  and  distin- 
guished himself  at  Eton  as  the  best  scholar,  the  best  boatman, 
and  the  best  cricketer;  and,  more  than  all,  he  was  supposed  to 
possess  the  comprehensive  excellences  that  are  represented  by 
the  familiar  term  of  "good  fellow."  He  made  many  friends 
amongst  the  scions  of  good  families,  by  whom  he  was  considered 
a  sort  of  Crichton ;  and  his  reputation  reached  a  circle  over 
which  reigned  the  celebrated  Duchess  of  Devonshire.  At  a 
grand  ball  given  by  her  Grace,  George  Brummell,  then  quite  a 
youth,  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  such  elevated  society.  He 
immediately  became  a  great  favorite  with  the  ladies,  and  was 
asked  by  all  the  dowagers  to  as  many  balls  and  soirees  as  he 
could  attend. 

At  last  the  Prince  of  Wales  sent  for  Brummell,  and  was  so 
much  pleased  with  his  manner  and  appearance,  that  he  gave 
him  a  commission  in  his  own  regiment,  the  loth  Hussars. 
Unluckily,  Brummell,  soon  after  joining  his  regiment,  was  thrown 
from  his  horse  at  a  grand  review  at  Brighton,  when  he  broke  his 

79 


MY      FAVORITE 


classical  Roman  nose.     This  misfortune,  however,  did  not  afFed: 
the  fame  of  the  beau ;  and  although  his  nasal  organ  had  under- 
gone a  slight  transformation,  it  was  forgiven  by   his  admirers, 
since  the  rest  of   his   person    remained  intadt.      When    we    are 
prepossessed   by  the   attractions  of  a  favorite,  it  is   not  a   trifle 
that  will  dispel  the  illusion;  and  Brummell  continued  to  govern 
society,  in  conjunction  with    the    Prince    of   Wales.      He    was 
remarkable  for  his  dress,  which  was  generally  conceived  by  him- 
self; the  execution  of   his  sublime   imagination 
A  Dignified        being  carried  out  by  that  superior  genius,  Mr. 
Dandy.  Weston,  tailor,  of  Old  Bond  Street.    The  Regent 

sympathized  deeply  with  Brummell's  labors  to 
arrive  at  the  most  attractive  and  gentlemanly  mode  of  dressing 
the  male  form,  at  a  period  when  fashion  had  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  tailor  the  most  hideous  material  that  could 
possibly  tax  his  art.  The  coat  may  have  a  long  tail  or  a  short 
tail,  a  high  collar  or  a  low  collar,  but  it  will  always  be  an  ugly 
garment.  The  modern  hat  may  be  spread  out  at  the  top,  or 
narrowed,  whilst  the  brim  may  be  turned  up  or  turned  down, 
made  a  little  wider  or  a  little  more  narrow;  still  it  is  inconceivably 
hideous.  Pantaloons  and  Hessian  boots  were  the  least  objec- 
tionable features  of  the  costume  which  the  imagination  of  a 
Brummell  and  the  genius  of  a  Royal  Prince  were  called  upon  to 
modify  or  change.  The  hours  of  meditative  agony  which  each 
dedicated  to  the  odious  fashions  of  the  day  have  left  no  monu- 
ment save  the  colored  caricatures  in  which  these  illustrious  per- 
sons have  appeared. 

Brummell,  at  this   time,  besides  being  the  companion  and 
friend  of  the  Prince,  was  very  intimate  with  the  Dukes  of  Rut- 
land, Dorset  and  Argyle,  Lords  Sefton,  Alvan- 
Popular  with       ley  and  Plymouth.      In  the  zenith  of  his  popu- 
the  Nobility.        larity   he   might  be  seen   at  the  bay  window  of 
White's   Club,  surrounded  by  the  lions  of  the 
day,  laying  down   the   law,  and  occasionally  indulging  in  those 
witty  remarks  for  which   he  was  famous.      His   house  in   Chapel 
Street  corresponded  with   his   personal  "get  up";  the  furniture 

80 


BOOK-SHELF 


was  in  excellent  taste,  and  the  library  contained  the  best  works 
of  the  best  authors  of  every  period  and  of  every  country.  His 
canes,  his  snuff-boxes,  his  Sevres  china  were  exquisite;  his  horses 
and  carriages  were  conspicuous  for  their  excellence;  and,  in  fa6l, 
the  superior  taste  of  a  Brummell  was  discoverable  in  everything 
that  belonged  to  him. 

But  the  reign  of  the  king  of  fashion,  like  all  other  reigns, 
was  not  destined  to  continue  forever.    Brummell  warmly  espoused 
the  cause  of  Mrs.  Fitzherbert,  and  this  of  course 
offended  the   Prince  of  Wales.      I   refer  to   the   ^^^    Fitzherbert. 
period  when  his  Royal  Highness  had  abandoned 
that  beautiful  woman  for  another  favorite.     A 
coldness  then  ensued  between  the   Prince  and  K\s  proi'eg'e ;  and 
finally,  the  mirror  of  fashion  was  excluded  from  the  royal  pres- 
ence. 

A  curious  accident  brought  Brummell  again  to  the  dinner- 
table  of  his  royal  patron;  he  was  asked  one  night  at  White's  to 
take  a  hand  at  whist,  when  he  won  from  George 
Harley    Drummond    twenty  thousand    pounds.  A  Heavy 

This   circumstance  having  been  related   by  the  Wager. 

Duke  of  York  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  beau 
was  again  invited  to  Carlton   House.     At  the  commencement 
of  the  dinner,  matters  went  off"  smoothly;  but  Brummell,  in  his 
joy  at  finding  himself  with  his  old  friend,  became  excited  and 
drank  too  much  wine.      His   Royal   Highness,  who  wanted  to 
pay  off"  Brummell  for  an  insult  he  had  received  at  Lady  Chol- 
mondeley's  ball,  when  the  beau,  turning  towards  the  Prince,  said 
to   Lady  Worcester,    "Who  is    your  fat  friend?"    had  Invited 
him  to  dinner  merely  out  of  a  desire  for  revenge.     The   Prince 
therefore  pretended  to  be  affronted  with  Brummell's  hilarity,  and 
said  to  his  brother,  the  Duke  of  York,  who  was 
present,  "  I  think  we  had  better  order  Mr.  Brum-        Who's  Tour 
mell's  carriage  before  he  gets  drunk."     Where-        P'^^  Friend? 
upon  he  rang  the  bell,  and   Brummell  left  the 
Royal  presence.     This  circumstance  originated  the  story  about 
the  beau  having  told  the   Prince   to  ring  the  bell.      I  received 

8i 


MY      FAVORITE 


these  details  from  the  late  General  Sir  Arthur  Upton,  who  was 
present  at  the  dinner. 

The  latter  days  of  Brummell  were  clouded  with  mortifica- 
tions and  penury.  He  retired  to  Calais,  where  he  kept  up  a 
ludicrous  imitation  of  his  past  habits.  At  last  he  got  himself 
named  consul  at  Caen;  but  he  afterwards  lost  the  appointment, 
and  eventually  died  insane,  and  in  abjed:  poverty,  at  Calais. 

The  members  of  the  clubs  in  London,  many  years  since, 
were  persons,  almost  without  exception,  belonging  exclusively 
to  the  aristocratic  world.  "  Mv  tradesmen,"  as 
London  Clubs  King  Allen  used  to  call  the  bankers  and  the  mer- 
in  1814.  chants,  had  not  then  invaded  White's,  Boodle's, 

Brookes's,  or  Wattiers's,  in  Bolton  Street,  Pic- 
cadilly, which,  with  the  Guards',  Arthur's  and  Graham's,  were 
the  only  clubs  at  the  West  Knd  of  the  town.  White's  was 
decidedly  the  most  difficult  of  entry;  its  list  of  members  com- 
prised nearly  all  the  noble  names  of  Great  Britain. 

The   politics  of  White's  Club  were  then  decidedly  Tory. 

It  was  here    that  play  was  carried  on  to  an  extent  which  made 

many  ravages  in    large  fortunes,  the    traces  of 

A  Big  which  have  not  disappeared  at  the  present  day. 

Winning.  General  Scott,  the  father-in-law  of  George  Can- 

ning and  the  Duke  of  Portland,  was  known  to 
have  won  at  White's  two  hundred  thousand  pounds;  thanks  to 
his  notorious  sobriety  and  knowledge  of  the  game  of  whist. 
The  general  possessed  a  great  advantage  over  his  companions  by 
avoiding  those  indulgences  at  the  table  which  used  to  muddle 
other  men's  brains. 

He  confined  himself  to  dining  oflF  something  like  a  boiled 
chicken,  with  toast  and  water;  by  such  a  regimen  he  came  to  the 
whist-table  with  a  clear  head,  and  possessing  as  he  did  a  remark- 
able memory,  with  great  coolness  and  judgment,  he  was  able 
honestly  to  win  the  enormous  sum  of  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds. 

At  Brookes's,  for  nearly  half  a  century,  the  play  was  of  a 
more  gambling   character  than    at  White's.      Faro    and    macao 


82 


BOOK-SHELF 


were  indulged  in  to  an  extent  which  enabled  a  man  to  win  or  to 
lose   a   considerable   fortune   in    one    night.      It   was    here    that 
Charles  James  Fox,  Selwyn,  Lord  Carlisle,  Lord 
Robert  Spencer,  General  Fitzpatrick,  and  other  Faro 

great  Whigs,  won  and  lost  hundreds  of  thou-  '^"<^  Macao. 
sands;  frequently  remaining  at  the  table  for  many 
hours  without  rising.  On  one  occasion.  Lord  Robert  Spencer 
contrived  to  lose  the  last  shilling  of  his  considerable  fortune, 
given  him  by  his  brother,  the  Duke  of  Marlborough;  General 
Fitzpatrick  being  in  much  the  same  condition,  they  agreed  to 
raise  a  sum  of  money  in  order  that  they  might  keep  a  faro  bank. 
The  members  of  the  club  made  no  objection,  and  ere  long  they 
carried  out  their  design.  As  is  generally  the  case,  the  bank  was 
a  winner,  and  Lord  Robert  bagged  as  his  share  of  the  proceeds 
^100,000.  He  retired,  strange  to  say,  from  the  foetid  atmos- 
phere of  play,  with  the  money  in  his  pocket  and  never  again 
gambled.  George  Harley  Drummond  of  the  famous  banking- 
house.  Charing  Cross,  only  played  once  in  his  life  at  White's 
Club  at  whist,  on  which  occasion  he  lost  ^{"20,000  to  Brummell. 
This  event  caused  him  to  retire  from  the  banking-house  of  which 
he  was  a  partner. 

Lord  Carlisle  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  vidlims 
amongst  the  players  at  Brookes's,  and  Charles  Fox,  his  friend, 
was  not  more  fortunate,  being  subsequently  always  in  pecuniary 
difficulties.  Many  a  time,  after  a  long  night  of  hard  play,  the 
loser  found  himself  at  the  Israelitish  establishment  of  Howard 
and  Gibbs,  then  the  fashionable  and  patronized  money-lenders. 
These  gentlemen  never  failed  to  make  hard  terms  with  the  bor- 
rower, although  ample  security  was  invariably  demanded. 

The  Guards'  Club  was  established  for  the  three  regiments 
of   Foot   Guards,  and  was  conduded  upon  a  military  system. 
Billiards  and  low  whist  were  the  only  games  in- 
dulged   in.     The    dinner    was,    perhaps,    better  A  Noble 
than  at  most  clubs,  and  considerably  cheaper.     I          Swindler. 
had  the  honour  of  being  a  member  for  several 
years,  during  which  time  I   have  nothing  to  remember  but  the 


83 


MY      FAVORITE 


most  agreeable  incidents.  Arthur's  and  Graham's  were  less  aris- 
tocratic than  those  I  have  mentioned;  it  was  at  the  latter,  thirty 
years  ago  that  a  most  painful  circumstance  took  place.  A  noble- 
man of  the  highest  position  and  influence  in  society  was  detected 
in  cheating  at  cards,  and  after  a  trial  which  did  not  terminate  in 
his  favour,  he  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

Upon  one  occasion,  some  gentlemen  of  both  White's  and 
Brookes's  had  the  honour  to  dine  with  the  Prince  Regent,  and 
during  the  conversation  the  Prince  inquired  what  sort  of  dinners 
thev  got  at  their  clubs;  upon  which  Sir  Thomas  Stepney,  one 
of  the  guests,  observed  that  their  dinners  were  always  the  same, 
"the  eternal  joints,  or  beefsteaks,  the  boiled  fowl  with  oyster 
sauce,  and  an  apple-tart  —  this  is  what  we  have,  sir,  at  our  clubs, 
and  very  monotonous  fare  it  is."  The  Prince,  without  further 
remark,  rang  the  bell  for  his  cook,  Wattier,  and  in  the  presence 
of  those  who  dined  at  the  royal  table,  asked  him  whether  he 
would  take  a  house  and  organize  a  dinner  club.  Wattier  as- 
sented and  named  Madison,  the  Prince's  page,  manager,  and 
Labourie,  the  cook,  from  the  royal  kitchen.  The  club  flour- 
ished only  a  few  years,  owing  to  the  high  play  that  was  carried 
on  there.  The  Duke  of  York  patronized  it  and  was  a  member. 
I  was  a  member  in  1816,  and  frequently  saw  his  Royal  High- 
ness there.  The  dinners  were  exquisite;  the  best  Parisian  cooks 
could  not  beat  Labourie.  The  favourite  game  played  there  was 
macao.  Upon  one  occasion  Jack  Bouverie,  brother  of  Lady 
Heytesbury,  was  losing  large  sums  and  became  very  irritable; 
Raikes,  with  bad  taste,  laughed  at  Bouverie,  and  attempted  to 
amuse  us  with  some  of  his  stale  jokes;  upon  which  Bouverie 
threw  his  play-bowl,  with  the  few  counters  it  contained,  at 
Raikes's  head;  unfortunately  it  struck  him,  and  made  the  city 
dandy  angry,  but  no  serious  results  followed  this  open  insult. 

I  frequently  met  the  famous  Madame  de  Stael  in  Paris  dur- 
ing the  years  181 5  and  1816.  She  was  constantly  at  Madame 
Crauford's  in  the  Rue  d'Anjou  St.  Honore,  and  at  Lady  Ox- 
ford's in   the   Rue  de  Clichy.     She  was  very  kind  and  affable 

84 


BOOK-SHELF 


to  all  the   English,  and  delighted  to  find  herself  once  more  in 
sight  and  smell  of  the  ruisseau  de  la  Rue  du  Bal,  which  she  once 
said  she  preferred  to  all  the  romantic  scenery  of 
Switzerland  and  Italy.     She  was  a  large,  mascu-    ^"^'^  ^'^^'^'^^ 
Ime-lookmg  woman,  rather  coarse,   and  with  a     Looking-  Woman. 
thoracic    development    worthy  of  a  wet  nurse. 
She  had  very  fine  arms,  which  she  took  every  opportunity  of  dis- 
playing, and  dark,  flashing  eyes,  beaming  with  wit  and  genius. 
Her  career  was  a  chequered  one,  and  her  history  is  a  ro- 
mance.    The  only  child  of  the   Minister  Necker,  in  troublous 
times  she  married   the   Swedish  Ambassador  at 
Paris,  the   Baron  de    Stael,  in   1786.     Full    of        Exiled  from 
great  and    noble    sentiments,  she    took  up  the      P'^ris  in  1802. 
cause   of  the  unfortunate    Louis   XVI   and  his 
Queen  with  generous  ardour.     She  arranged  a  plan  of  escape 
for  the  King  in  1792,  and  did  not  fear  to  present  to  the  revolu- 
tionary tribunal,  in   1793,  ^  petition  in  favour  of  Marie  Antoi- 
nette.    She  remained  in  Paris  during  the  Dired:ory;  and  it  was 
under  her   influence   and    protedlion   that  Talleyrand   obtained 
ofiice  in  1796.     She  was  always  opposed  to  Napoleon,  and  was 
exiled  by  him  from  Paris  in  1 802.     She  returned,  however,  and 
her    presence   was  tolerated    till    the   appearance    of  her   book, 
"  De  I'Allemagne,"  the  sentiments  and  allusions  of  which  were 
decidedly  hostile  to  the  imperial  despotism  which  then  oppressed 
nearly  the  whole  of  Europe.     The  book  was  seized  by  the  Em- 
peror's police,  and   Madame  de  Stael  was  again  exiled,  and  did 
not  return  until  1 8 1 5  to  Paris,  where  she  died  in  1 8 1 7,  aged  fifty- 
one.     Admirable  as  her  writings  were,  her  conversation  surpassed 
them.      She  was  "well  up"  on  every  subjed.      Her  salons  were 
filled  with  all  the  most  celebrated  persons  of  her  time.     The 
statesmen,  men  of  science,  poets,  lawyers,  sol- 
diers, and  divines,  who  crowded  to  hear  her,  were        Her  Hatred 
astounded  at  her  eloquence  and  erudition.     Dis-        of  Napoleon. 
dain  and  contempt  for  her  personal  charms  or 
mental   powers  was    one  of   the  causes  of   the  hatred   she  had 
vowed  to  the  first  Napoleon;  and,  unequal  as  a  contest  between 

85 


MY      FAVORITE 


the  greatest  Sovereign  of  the  age  and  a  woman  would  at  first 

sight  appear,  there  is  no  doubt  that,  by  her  writings  and  sarcastic 

savings,   which   were   echoed    from  one  end  of   Europe   to   the 

other,  she  did  him  much  injury. 

Talleyrand,  when   he   married    Madame  Grand,  a  beautiful 

but   illiterate   idiot,  said   he  did   so  to  repose   himself  after  the 

eternally    learned    and    eloquent    discourses    of 

^  ,,         .         Madame  de  Stael,  with  whom  he  had  been  very 
lalleyrana.  .      .  ^^  .  n     i-  i 

mtimate.      Un    one    occasion,    alludmg    to    her 

masculine    intellect    and    appearance,  while  she 

was  holding  forth  at  great  length,  he  said,  ''Ei/e  est  homme  a  parler 

jusqua  demain  mating     At  another  time,  when    he  was  with  her 

in  a  boat,  and  she  was  talking  of  courage  and  devotion,  qualities 

in  which  the  ci-divant  bishop  was  notoriously  deficient,  she  put 

the  question,  "  What  would  you  do  if  I  were  to  fall  into  the 

water?"     "Ah,  madam,  you  must  be  such  a  good  swimmer!" 

A    pretty   saying   of   Madame    de   Stael's    is   cited,  which 

shewed  her  good  taste  and  good  feeling.     A  person  in  a  large 

company,  in  beholding   her  and   Madame  Reca- 

,,   .       „,  mier, —  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  France,  and 

Madame  Kecamter.        i-iii  ir  i  i  i 

who  prided  herselr  not  so  much  on  her  personal 

appearance    as    on   her  intelledlual    gifts, —  said, 

"Here  is  wit"   (pointing  to   Madame  de  Stael)   "and  beauty" 

(pointing  to   Madame   Re'camier).      Madame  de  Stael  answered, 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  was  ever  praised  for  my  beauty." 

The  person  in  England  who  was  the  great  objed:  of 
Madame  de  Stael's  admiration,  and  in  the  praise  of  whom  she 
was  never  weary,  was  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  one  of  the  greatest 
men  of  the  age,  and  certainly  the  best  read  man  of  the- day. 
She  also  lived  on  most  intimate  terms  with  the  celebrated  orator 
and  publicist,  Benjamin  Constant;  but  her  liaison  was  supposed 
to  be  a  Platonic  one;  indeed,  she  was  secretly  married,  in  1810, 
to  M.  de  Rocca,  a  young  officer  of  hussars,  who  was  wounded 
in  Spain,  and  who  wrote  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  Penin- 
sular war. 

Madame  de  Stael  was  perhaps  at  times  a  little  overpower- 

86 


BOOK-SHELF 


ing,  and   totally  deficient  In   those  "brilliant  flashes  of  silence" 
which   Sydney  Smith  once  jokingly  recommended  to  Macaulay. 
In  fadt,  as  a  Scotchman  once  said  of  Johnson,  she  was  "a  robust 
genius,  born  to  grapple  with  whole  libraries,  and 
a  tremendous  conversationist."  ,.   .        ,  o   ■•/ 

A  •  11       ri        T-vi  TTv/Tii  Madame  de  btael. 

A  story  is  told  or  the  Duke  or  Marlbo- 
rough, great-grandfather  of  the  present  Duke, 
which  always  amused  me.  The  Duke  had  been  for  some  time 
a  confirmed  hypochondriac,  and  dreaded  anything  that  could  in 
any  way  ruffle  the  tranquil  monotony  of  his  existence.  It  is 
said  that  he  remained  for  three  years  without  pronouncing  a 
single  word,  and  was  entering  the  fourth  year  of  his  silence, 
when  he  was  told  one  morning  that  Madame  la  Baronne  de 
Stael,  the  authoress  of  "  Corinne,"  was  on  the  point  of  arriving 
to  pay  him  a  visit.  The  Duke  immediately  recovered  his 
speech,  and  roared  out,  "Take  me  away,  take  me  away!"  to  the 
utter  astonishment  of  the  circle  around  him,  who  all  declared 
that  nothing  but  the  terror  of  this  literary  visitation  could  have 
put  an  end  to  this  long  and  obstinate  monomania. 


87 


MY      FAVORITE 


FRANCIS    WHITING     HALSEY. 


It  is  a  universal  and  much-expressed  regret  that  the  literary 

output  has  of  late  years  become   almost  a  flood.     On  all  sides 

one   hears  complaints  of  it.      Men  and  women 

The  Enormous      are   perplexed   to  know  where  they  shall  begin 

Output.  their   reading   and  where   end    it.     The    books 

published  in   Great   Britain  alone  now  number 

each  year  6,000,  and   perhaps  they  have   gone  up  to  7,000,  of 

which  only  about   1,500  are  new  editions.     These  figures  have 

not  yet  been  reached  in  America,  but  they  have  been  very  nearly 

approached;    so   that   in    the   two  countries  we  have  each  year 

about    11,000    books,    though    many  of  these    are    necessarily 

counted  twice,  having  been  brought  out  in  both  continents. 

Books  as  they  come  from  the  press  are  in  fad:  fast  becom- 
ing what  many  newspapers  and  magazines  have  been  —  publica- 
tions whose  term   of  life  is  ephemeral.     They 
Literature         exist  as  the  favourites  of  a  month,  or  possibly  a 
Short-lived.        year;  then,  having  had  their  brief  summer-time 
of  success,  they  silently  go   their  destined  way. 
Oblivion    overwhelms    them.      Not    ten    per   cent   of  any    one 
year's   books  can  hope  to  linger  a  year  after  their  publication  in 
the  popular  memory  even  as  names. 

Meanwhile,   though  the   publishers   never   before  were  so 
deluged  with   manuscripts,  there  is  something  to  be  thankful  for 
in  the  fa6l  that  only  a  very  small  proportion  of 
the  Be"!^Books       ^^^  writing  adivity  going  on   ever  finds   repre- 
Ij^^  sentation    in    printed   books.     A  few  years  ago 

Frederick  Macmillan  declared  publicly  in  Lon- 
don that  his  house  in  one  year  had  accepted  only  11  manu- 
script5  out  of  315  submitted.      Inclined  as  we  may  be  to  blame 

88 


BOOK-SHELF 


the  publishers  for  our  deluge,  these  fads  show  us  how  substan- 
tial is  our  debt  to  them.  They  have  served  us  most  effedlually 
as  a  dam. 

Authors  themselves  have  caught  this  fever  and  habit  of 
rapid  produ(ition.  Once  fame  has  come  to  them,  they  strive 
more  and  more  to  meet  the  demand  for  their  writings,  a  process 
certain  to  ruin  their  art;  and  yet  few  withstand  the  temptation. 
One  author  records,  as  if  he  were  proud  of  the  achievement, 
that  he  can  regularly  produce  i,ooo  words  in  a  day.  Another 
can  write  1,500,  while  the  most  accomplished  of  all  in  that  line 
can  produce  4,000.  Trollope  told  us  he  could  average  10,000 
words  a  week,  and  when  pushed  could  more  than  double  the 
output.  Writing  done  at  this  rate  of  speed  is  not  literature  and 
cannot  be.  It  is  simply  job  work,  the  work  of  day  labourers  — 
and  in  no  sense  the  work  of  genius  or  inspiration. 

Confiding  readers  who  may  indulge  a  belief  that  some  of 
the  popular  books  of  the  day  of  this  description  are  to  remain 
fairly  permanent  additions  to  English  literature, 
should  recall  to  their  minds  the  titles  of  some     ^'^'''^^^^"''''" 
of  the  most  popular  favourites  of  half  a  century         short-lived. 
or  more  ago.      Here  are  an  even  dozen  such: 
"Ringan   Gilhaize,"  by  John   Gait  (1823);    "The  Pilgrims  of 
Walsingham,"  by  Agnes    Strickland   (1825);  "Two    Friends," 
by  the  Countess  of  Blessington   (1825);  "Now  and  Then,"  by 
Samuel  Warren   (1848);    "Over  Head   and  Ears,"  by   Button 
Cook    (1868);    "Temper    and    Temperament,"  by    Mrs.   Ellis 
(1846);    "Modern     Society,"    by    Catherine     Sinclair    (1837); 
"Wood    Leighton,"    by    Mary    Howitt    (1836);  "Round    the 
Sofa,"  by  Mrs.  Gaskell  (1859);  "The  Lost  Link,"  by  Thomas 
Hood  (1868);  "Lady  Herbert's  Gentlewoman,"  by  Eliza  Mete- 
yard  (1862);  "Called  to  Account,"  by  Annie  Thomas  (1867). 

Few  readers  now  living  know  anything  of  these  books. 
The  younger  generation  probably  never  heard  of  one  of  them. 
At  the  same  time  there  came  from  the  publishers  other  books  in 
small  editions,  of  which  the  fame  is  greater  now  than  it  ever 
was — those  of  Ruskin,  Tennyson,  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  and 

89 


MY      FAVORITE 


Carlvle,  which  have  become  permanent  additions  to  the  glory  of 
the  EngHsh  tongue. 

The  causes  of  our  deluge,  once  we  refled:  on  the  intelledlual 
history  of  the  past  twenty  or  thirty  years,  are  plainly  to  be  seen. 
They  lie  in  the  greater  efficiency  of  the  common 
h"r'  schools,  the  increase  in  attendance  at   colleges, 

Deluzc  ^^  enormous  growth  of  libraries,  free  and  other- 

wise, the  spread  of  such  systems  of  instruction 
as  are  provided  at  Chautauqua,  the  growth  of  periodical  litera- 
ture, from  reading  which  the  public  passes  by  a  natural  process 
of  intuition  to  reading  books,  the  free  travelling  libraries,  and 
along  with  these  causes  the  very  important  one  of  the  general 
decline  in  the  cost  of  printing  books  and  magazines.  To  get 
an  education  has  become  the  mere  matter  of  taking  the  time  to 
get  it.  One  lies  within  the  reach  of  all  who  seek  it.  How  keen 
and  widespread  has  become  the  appetite  for  reading  is  seen  in 
the  familiar  fadl  that  popular  magazines  find  their  largest  support 
in  small  and  distant  communities.  Many  purely  literary  period- 
icals have  their  subscribers  scattered  through  small  towns  from 
Maine  to  Texas,  from  Florida  to  the  State  of  Washington. 
Readers  in  such  localities  have  become  a  mainstay  of  book  pub- 
lishers also. 

The  sale  from   the  Arnold  collection   in   May,  1901,  of  a 
copy  of  the  first  edition,  containing  the  first  title  page,  of  Mil- 
ton's "Paradise   Lost,"   for  I830,  may  or  may 
Pecuniary  not  be  the  highest  price  that  will  ever  be  paid 

Rewards.  for  a  copy  of  that    scarce    book;  but   it    starts 

reminiscences  of  the  strangely  unequal  rewards 
which  authorship  has  given  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest  times. 
The  money  paid  to  Milton  for  the  copyright  of  that  poem  was 
exactly  %^o^  in  instalments  of  $25  each,  his  estate  afterward 
receiving  an  additional  ^25. 

Milton  was  an  explorer  into  an  unknown  world.      He  went 
farther  among  the   possibilities  of  the   English  tongue  than   any 

90 


BOOK-SHELF 


other  man,  save  one,  had  gone  before  him.  The  world,  how- 
ever, did  not  know  what  he  had  done  until  long  afterward.  He, 
in  the  meantime,  had  sold  his  book  for  what  he  could  get,  and 
the  world,  when  it  saw  what  he  had  accomplished,  no  longer  had 
a  chance  to  reward  him. 

Strange,  indeed,  in  other  ways,  have  been  the  rewards  which 
literature  has  bestowed.     When  we  think  of  the  princely  sums 
writers  have  earned  in  our  day,  it  is  startling  to 
remember  Burns  and  his  immortal   poverty,  or        The  Rewards 
Milton  selling  "Paradise  Lost"  for  a  picayune.       of  Literature. 
A  negro  poet  in  our  day,  Paul  L.  Dunbar,  does 
better  than    Burns  or   Milton  did.     Scarcely  a  year  had  passed 
after  his  "Lyrics  of   Lowly  Life"  came  out,  when  more  than 
5,000  copies  had  been  sold.      He  was  the  most  widely  read  poet 
of  a    year.      In    England    one    of  the    magazines,  following  a 
French  custom,  had  "crowned"  a  volume  of  verse  by  Stephen 
Phillips,  and   the   newspapers   chronicled  as  a  great   success  the 
sale  of  500  copies,  with  another  of  700  as  on  the  press.      But 
here  was  the  coloured  man,  whom  nobody  had  crowned,  boasting 
5,000  copies. 

It  is  not  poetry,  nor  is  it  other  literature  of  a  creative  kind, 
that  wins  the  largest  pecuniary  rewards.  It  is  usually  the  man 
who  performs  some  great  feat,  perhaps  in  exploration,  and  then 
writes  a  book.  It  was  this  fa6t  that  made  General  Grant  a  most 
successful  writer,  made  Stanley  another,  and  Nansen  a  third. 
The  returns  these  authors  gained   raised  them  to  independence. 

Of  all  writings,  save  those  just  named,  it  is  fidion  that 
yields  the   largest  returns,  because   the   sales   are  so  enormous. 
The  contrast  between  the  returns  which  Gibbon 
received  and  those  which  poured  into  the  lap  of     „    /    ""7!!°^ 

o  1  ,  1111  J  1  Profits  tn  Modern 

bcott  would  probably  be  as  great,  and  perhaps  FiSlion. 

even   greater,  were   they  writing   in    our  times. 

With  the  increase  Gibbon  might   now  secure,  there  would    be 

corresponding  increase  for  Scott.     Froude  in  his  later  life  had  an 

ampler  reward  than  Gibbon;  and  ampler  than  Scott's  have  been 

91 


MY      FAVORITE 


the  sales  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  Mrs.  Ward,  Du  Maurier, 
and  Crawtord.  When  "Saracinesca"  a  few  years  ago  was  an- 
nounced as  already  in  its  one  hundred  and  tenth  thousand, 
"Mr.  Isaacs"  in  its  fifty-fifth,  and  "Sant'  Ilario"  (a  sequel 
though  it  be)  in  its  forty-fourth,  one  was  tempted  to  count  up 
what  even  the  ordinary  royalty  would  return  to  Mr.  Crawford; 
but  here  we  might  forget  that  the  modern  noveHst  often  secures 
greater  sums  than  a  simple  fixed  royalty  would  have  yielded, 
because  he  sells  for  a  large  lump  sum  on  the  "progressive 
royalty  "  plan.  But  even  Mr.  Crawford's  sales  have  since  been 
far  outdone.  In  the  late  summer  of  1901  the  following  reports 
were  made  for  other  books,  as  here  named;  and  these  figures 
have,  of  course,  been  increased  since  then : 


David  Harum  _  .  _ 

Richard  Carvel    -  -  -  - 

The  Crisis      -  .  .  - 

Janice  Meredith  .  _  . 

Eben  Holden  .  .  . 

Quincv  Adams  Sawyer 
D'ri  and  I      - 
To  Have  and  to  Hold 
The  Christian  ... 

The  Eternal  City  .  .  . 

An  English  Woman's  Love  Letters 
Black  Rock       f  ,  , 

The  Sky  Pilot  j  ^"^"^^^  ""^'^        ' 


520,000  copies. 

420,000 

320,000 

275,000 

265,000 

200,000 

100,000 

285,000 

200,000 

100,000 

250,000 

500,000 


Even  if  we  reckon  the  royalty  on  these  books  as  only  ten 
per  cent,  handsome  sums  of  money  were  secured  for  writing 
them  —  sums  which  in  authorship  may  be  called  princely. 

Twenty  years  ago, when  all  the  world  was  reading  Longfel- 
low or  Tennvson,    Howells  or  Charles    Reade,  an  author  was 
writing  in    Brooklyn,  of  whom  the  upper  world 
Jn  Anonymous      knows  absolutely  nothing.     Under  a  pseudonym 
Writer.  (which  shall  be  nameless  here)  he  numbered  read- 

ers by  many,  many  thousands.  His  stories  went 
into  scores  of  homes  where  Howells'  have  gone  into  one,  and 
great  was  his  reward. 


92 


BOOK-SHELF 


These  conditions  have  not  been  pecuHar  to  America.     They 
are  true  also  in   England,  where  in  cheap  weekly  papers,  or  in 
cheap  paper-bound  volumes,  authors  unknown 
to    Mayfair    and    BeWavia,   to   stately   country     _  ,         ,  „ 

,  ^      ,  ,       '-'  ,  r  J  1        hpbemeral  tame. 

homes  and  to  seashore  resorts,  have  round  read- 
ers by  hundreds  of  thousands.  There  was  the 
author  of "  Gideon  Giles,"  which  in  its  day  had  more  readers 
than  "  Vanity  Fair  "  or  "  Henry  Esmond,"  "  David  Copperfield," 
or  "Our  Mutual  Friend,"  and  which  at  one  bound  sent  the  cir- 
culation of  the  paper  in  which  it  appeared  from  100,000  copies 
per  week  to  500,000.  Its  author's  name  is  now  overwhelmed 
in  forgetfulness.  There,  too,  was  the  creator  of  "Jack  Hark- 
away,"  whose  stories  were  universally  popular  in  their  time,  but 
are  now  unknown,  and  I  believe  unprinted. 

It  has  come  within  the  experience  of  most  booksellers  and 
publishers  to  observe   books  of  high   merit  which   have  made 
their  way  regardless  of  praise  or  blame,  in  any 
public   place, —  books  which  have  triumphantly  Books  of 

passed  the  ordeal  of  criticism,  whether  of  sweep-  High  Merit. 
ing  condemnation  or  of  perfundiory  praise.  They 
made  their  way  in  spite  of  all  that  was  said  or  not  said ;  praise 
denied  or  praise  bestowed ;  and  in  spite  of  notoriety  conferred 
by  newspapers.  Often  these  were  books  by  authors  never  heard 
of  before.  Perhaps  they  had  been  published  anonymously  and 
were  books  with  which  the  publishers  began  with  little  faith. 
One  shining  example  we  have  in  a  book  now  historic  in  many 
ways  that  was  long  hawked  about  London  in  vain  for  a  pub- 
lisher, one  over  which  the  publisher  who  finally  took  it,  on 
noting  its  cold  reception  from  the  public,  uttered  many  a  groan ; 
but  a  work  now  famous  as  are  few  books  of  recent  times  —  Car- 
lyle's  "  Sartor  Resartus." 

Again,  to  take  a  book  of  our  own  day  and  one  of  the  most 
widely  read,  Mr.  Ford's  "The  Honourable  Peter  Stirling."  Its 
success  illustrates  how  to  a  work  of  some  distind:  merit  recog- 
nition will  come  eventually,  whatever  may  have  been  its  early 

93 


MY      FAVORITE 


fate.      Mr.  Ford's  success  certainly  was  not  made  by  the  critics. 

Thev  had  all  reviewed  his  book  and  in  the  main  favourably;  but 

it  made  no  special  headway  until  long  afterward, 

Tbf  Honourable     when  a   demand   started   up  in    San    Francisco, 

Peter  Stirling.      spreading  thence  through  the  Middle  West,  and 

now  it  still  spreads.     Here  we  see  how  there  had 

grown  up  an   army  of  book  readers,  remote  from  great  centres 

of   life  and    trade,  and    independent  of   critics   and    newspaper 

notoriety  in  determining  the  fate  of  a  book. 

The  truth   is,  and  it  should  be  oftener  acknowledged,  that 

there  exists  no  recognized  court  of  opinion  —  certainly  no  court 

of  final  appeal,  in  so  far  as  any  chosen   body  of 

/    ^  'r^'^rr       r    culturcd  men   may   constitute   one.      One  court 
the  Only  Test  of       .  .         .,•'  ,,  ,  .,  ir- 

Worth.  alone  exists  m  the  world  —  the  tribunal  or  time. 

Criticism  may  go  right  or  may  go  wrong;  a  whole 

generation   may  negled:  or  condemn  a  book;  the   book,  in  fadt, 

may  become  scarce  and  almost  forgotten;    but  if  it  have  within 

its  covers   the  seeds  of  immortal   life.  Time  will  save  it,  and  a 

tribunal  greater  than  critics  fix  its  place  and  for- 
Criticism  ^^^j.  j^^j^  j^  ^j^^j.^_ 

Has  No  Lasting  „...  ..,^.  ,.,_  _ 

£frg^  Lnticism   in  itselr    is   not  a  nigh    rorm    or 

literature,  and  it  is  proper  that  it  should  not  be. 

When  it  shines  at  all,  it  shines  as  by  a  borrowed  light.     It  must 

always  be  an  ephemeral  thing. 


It  is  a  familiar  discovery  for  men  to  find  as  they  grow  in 

years  that  they  grow  in  appreciation  of  the  best  books.     No  man 

ever  opens  Shakespeare  without  finding  some- 

Something         thing   new,  and  the  same  is  true  of  Milton  and 
New  in  All  dreat     „,     °  '^  „  ,  ,,,       ,  i         r   i         i 

Writers  Lhaucer,  or  Byron  and  Wordsworth,  or   Landor 

and    Thackeray,  of   Hawthorne    and    Fielding. 

Here  are  staunch  and  life-long  friends  who  never  weary  us,  who 

are    always    hospitable    and   in   good   temper,  and    who  can    be 

trusted  to  maintain  faithfully  more  than  half  the  friendship. 


94 


BOOK-SHELF 

i 


-^    <T?1 


We  may  be  absolutely  certain   that  whatever  is  good  will 
not  die.     Wherever  exists  a  book  that  adds  to  our  wisdom,  that 
consoles  our  thought,  it  cannot  perish.      Critics 
may  assail   it  with  their   hundreds   of  columns.         „    ,     ° 
Its  own  generation  may  neglea  it.      l^ire  may  Perish 

burn  up  the  entire  edition,  save  a  handful  of 
copies;    and  yet  that    book  will    live.      Nothing  is  so  immortal 
as  mere  words,  once  they  have  been  spoken  fitly  or  divinely. 

A  good  book  die !  We  shall  sooner  see  the  forests  cut 
away  from  every  hillside,  the  volume  of  water  in  great  rivers 
run  dry,  walls  built  of  granite  or  travertine  lying  prostrate  on 
the  ground.  Critics  may  go  right  or  may  go  wrong.  It  matters 
not.  There  exists  in  the  world  that  eternal  tribunal,  greater  far 
than  they,  its  verdids  final  and  infallible, —  the  central  heart  of 
cultured  mankind. 


A  world  that  is  still  held  captive  by  "Jane  Eyre"  has  for- 
gotten  who  was   prime   minister    of   England   when    Charlotte 
Bronte  wrote  that  book,  or  who  were  the  men 
who  led  the  armies  and   the  fieets  of  Europe  to    ^  .J\\  ^"l!^  . 

,1  •  roi^         1        TJJ1         J  -^^"^  Held  Laptive 

the  siege  or  Sebastopol.     Indeed  the  day  may  ^    <,  j^^^  ^^^  ,, 
yet   come   when    Lincoln's   administration  shall 
remain  less  familiar  in  men's  minds  than  those  immortal  words 
—  not  three   hundred  words  altogether — which   Lincoln  spoke 
on  the  field  of  Gettysburg. 

Coincident  with  an  increase  in   books  has  been   the  devel- 
opment of  the  art   of  editing  old   books.     From   this   source 
comes  the  large  volume  of  reprints  —  a  volume 
that  increases  and  in  which  is  to  be  found  the  Editing 

chief  consolation  in  the  enormous  output.  Old  Books. 

Shakespeare,  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
found  several  editors  and  sorely  needed  them;  scores  have 
descended  upon  him  since,  and  to  this  need  in  Shakespeare's 
case  we  must  probably  date  the  later  rise  of  the  art  to  a  distind: 
place  among  literary  accomplishments.  How  widespread  its 
pra6tise  now  is  need  not  be  specified;  every  man  of  letters  may 

95 


MY      FAVORITE 


be  assumed  to  have  had  some  hand  at  it;  but  the  services  it  has 
rendered  to  literature  are  seldom  well  understood  and  have  been 

infrequently  recognized.      Its  best  influence  has 
_  ..  probably  been  seen  in   the  improvement  in  the 

methods  which   authors   themselves   employ   to 

make  their  books  more  accessible,  by  means 
of  suggestive  and  useful  tables  of  contents,  intelligent  page 
captions,  and  proper  indexes.  Here  the  changes  wrought  in 
recent  decades  have  been  striking.  Looking  back  over  a  period 
of  not  more  than  thirty  years,  one  may  recall  notable  examples 
of  adtual  genius  in  this  sort  of  work, —  examples  that  must  still 
be  exerting  potent  influences  upon  men  whose  business  it  is  to 
put  books  together. 

Work   closely  allied   to  editing  of  the   class   referred   to  is 
that    of   making   anthologies,  and    here    Palgrave  must  not   be 

overlooked.      Palgrave  has   the  unique  distinc- 

Pa/grave  as  an      tion  of  having  acquired,  merely  by  compiling  an 

Editor.  anthology,  a  degree  of  literary  reputation  such 

as  comes  only  to  authors  who  write  very  success- 
ful books.  Palgrave,  indeed,  is  known  where  many  authors,  prop- 
erly to  be  called  successful,  are  not  known.  His  modest  volume, 
*'The  Golden  Treasury  of  the  Best  Songs  and  Lyrics  in  the 
English  Language,"  was  published  nearly  forty  years  ago.  Such 
has  been  its  repute  that  not  to  know  it  is  to  argue  one's  self 
strangely  unfamiliar  with  the  books  of  the  generations  now  past. 
Not  only  has  the  book  gone  through  edition  after  edition,  but  it 
has  given  its  name  to  one  of  the  most  successful  series  of  books 
of  our  generation.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  success  of 
that  series  in  a  very  considerable  degree  was  indebted  to  the 
name  it  bore  and  the  distinguished  company  its  volumes  kept. 


96 


BOOK-SHELF 

OLIVER    WENDELL     HOLMES. 


Little  localized  powers,  and  little  narrow  streaks  of  special- 
ized  knowledge,  are  things   men  are  very  apt  to   be  conceited 
about.      Nature  is  very  wise;    but  for  this  en- 
couraging principle  how  many  small  talents  and  „ 
little     accomplishments    would     be     negledled  1 
Talk  about  conceit  as  much  as  you  like,  it  is  to 
human  character  what  salt  is  to  the  ocean ;  it  keeps  it  sweet,  and 
renders  it  endurable.     Say  rather  it  is  like  the  natural  unguent 
of  the  sea-fowl's  plumage,  which    enables  him  to  shed  the  rain 
which  falls  on  him  and  the  wave  in  which  he  dips.     When  one 
has  had  all  his  conceit  taken  out  of  him,  when  he  has  lost  all 
his  illusions,  his  feathers  will  soon  soak  through,  and  he  will  fly 
no  more. 

What  are  the  great  faults  of  conversation  ?     Want  of  ideas, 
want  of  words,  want  of  manners,  are  the  principal  ones,  I   sup- 
pose you  think.      I   don't  doubt  it,  but  I  will 
tell  vou  what   I   have   found  spoil   more  good         ,r^,"^\    ■ 

,,    -^     ,  ,  .  ,  .       ^  °  and  Obstacles  tn 

talks   than   anythmg  else — long  arguments  on        Conversation. 

special  points  between  people  who  differ  on  the 

fundamental   principles  upon  which  these   points  depend.      No 

men  can  have  satisfactory  relations  with  each  other  until  they 

have  agreed  on  certain  ultimata  of  belief  not  to  be  disturbed  in 

ordinary  conversation,  and  unless    they  have  sense   enough  to 

trace   the  secondary  questions  depending   upon   these  ultimate 

beliefs  to  their  source.     In  short,  just  as  a  written  constitution 

is  essential  to  the  best  social  order,  so  a  code  of  finalities  is  a 

necessary    condition    of   profitable    talk    between    two    persons. 

Talking  is  like  playing  on  the  harp;    there  is  as  much  in  laying 

the   hand  on  the  strings  to  stop  their  vibrations  as  in  twanging 

them  to  bring  out  their  music. 

97 


MY     FAVORITE 


We  all  have  to  assume  a  standard  of  judgment  in  our  own 
minds,  either  of  things  or  persons.  A  man  who  is  willing  to 
take  another's  opinion  has  to  exercise  his  judgment  in  the  choice 
of  whom  to  follow,  which  is  often  as  nice  a  matter  as  to  judge 
of  things  for  one's  self.  On  the  whole,  I  had  rather  judge 
men's  minds  by  comparing  their  thoughts  with  my  own,  than 
judge  of  thoughts  by  knowing  who  utter  them.  I  must  do  one 
or  the  other.  It  does  not  follow,  of  course,  that  I  may  not 
recognize  another  man's  thoughts  as  broader  and  deeper  than 
my  own;  but  that  does  not  necessarily  change  my  opinion, 
otherwise  this  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  every  superior  mind 
that  held  a  different  one.  How  many  of  our  most  cherished 
beliefs  are  like  those  drinking-glasses  of  the  ancient  pattern, 
that  serve  us  well  so  long  as  we  keep  them  in  our  hand,  but  spill 
all  if  we  attempt  to  set  them  down !  I  have  sometimes  com- 
pared conversation  to  the  Italian  game  of  mora,  in  which  one 
plaver  lifts  his  hand  with  so  many  fingers  extended,  and  the 
other  gives  the  number  if  he  can.  I  show  my  thought,  another 
his;  if  they  agree,  well;  if  they  differ,  we  find  the  largest  com- 
mon fadtor,  if  we  can,  but  at  any  rate  avoid  disputing  about  re- 
mainders and  fractions,  which  is  to  real  talk  what  tuning  an 
instrument  is  to  playing  on  it. 

We  have  settled  when  old  age  begins.      Like  all  Nature's 

processes,  it  is  gentle   and  gradual    in  its  approaches,  strewed 

with  illusions,  and  all  its  little  griefs  soothed  by 

\     .        natural  sedatives.      But  the  iron  hand  is  not  less 
Approach  of         .....       .  .  .  . 

Old  Aze.  irresistible    because   it   wears    the   velvet   glove. 

The  button-wood  throws  off  its   bark  in   large 

flakes,  which  one  may  find   lying  at  its  foot,  pushed  out,  and  at 

last  pushed  off,  by  that  tranquil  movement  from  beneath,  which 

is  too  slow  to  be  seen,  but  too  powerful  to  be  resisted.     One 

finds  them   always,  but  one  rarely  sees  them   fall.      So  it  is  our 

youth  drops  from   us, —  scales  off,  sapless  and   lifeless,  and  lays 

bare  the  tender  and  immature  fresh  growth  of  old  age.     Looked 

at  colle(itively,  the  changes  of  old  age  appear  as  a  series  of  per- 

98 


BOOK-SHELF 


sonal  insults  and  indignities,  terminating  at  last  in  death,  which 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  has  called  "the  very  disgrace  and  ignominy 
of  our  natures." 

We  have  a  brief  description  of  seven  stages   of  life  by  a 
remarkably  good  observer.     It  is  very  presumptuous  to  attempt 
to  add  to  it,  yet  I  have  been  struck  with  the  fad: 
that  life  admits  of  a  natural  analysis  into  no  less    ^^  „..      ,f 
than   fifteen  distindl  periods.     Taking  the  five  of  Life 

primary  divisions  —  infancy,  childhood,  youth, 
manhood,  old  age  —  each  of  these  has  its  own  three  periods  of 
immaturity,  complete  development,  and  decline.  I  recognize 
an  old  baby  at  once — with  its  "pipe  and  mug"  (a  stick  of  candy 
and  a  porringer),  so  does  everybody;  and  an  old  child  shedding 
its  milk-teeth  is  only  a  little  prototype  of  the  old  man  shedding 
his  permanent  ones.  Fifty  or  thereabouts  is  only  the  childhood, 
as  it  were,  of  old  age;  the  graybeard  youngster  must  be  weaned 
from  his  late  suppers  now.  So  you  will  see  that  you  have  to 
make  fifteen  stages  at  any  rate,  and  that  it  would  not  be  hard  to 
make  twenty-five;  five  primary,  each  with  five  secondary  divi- 
sions. The  infancy  and  childhood  commencing  old  age  have 
the  same  ingenuous  simplicity  and  delightful  unconsciousness 
about  them  as  the  first  stage  of  the  earlier  periods  of  life  shows. 
The  great  delusion  of  mankind  is  in  supposing  that  to  be  indi- 
vidual and  exceptional  which  is  universal  and  according  to  law. 
A  person  is  always  startled  when  he  hears  himself  seriously 
called  an  old  man  for  the  first  time. 

I  think  you  will  find  it  true,  that,  before  any  vice  can  fasten 
on   a  man,  body,  mind,  or  moral   nature  must  be  debilitated. 
The  mosses  and  fungi  gather  on  sickly  trees,  not 
thriving  ones;    and  the  odious  parasites  which  ,^"^  ^V^^"„ 

r  11  r  11  1  •    I    •  on  the  Moralh 

fasten  on  the  human  rrame  choose  that  which  is  IVeak 

already  enfeebled.      Mr.  Walker,   the    hygeian 
humorist,  declared  that  he  had  such  a  healthy  skin  it  was  impos- 
sible for  any  impurity  to  stick  to  it,  and  maintained  that  it  was 
an  absurdity  to  wash  a  face  which  was  of  necessity  always  clean. 


99 


MY      FAVORITE 


I  don't  know  how  much  fancy  there  was  in  this ;  but  there  is  no 
fancy  in  saving  that  the  lassitude  of  tired-out  operatives,  and 
the  languor  of  imaginative  natures  in  their  periods  of  collapse, 
and  the  vacuitv  of  minds  untrained  to  labor  and  discipline,  fit 
the  soul  and  body  for  the  germination  of  the  seeds  of  intemper- 
ance. 

Whenever  the  wandering  demon  of  drunkenness  finds  a 
ship  adrift, —  no  steady  wind  in  its  sails,  no  thoughtful  pilot  di- 
recting its  course, —  he  steps  on  board,  takes  the  helm,  and  steers 
straight  for  the  maelstrom. 


lOO 


BOOK-SHELF 

VICTOR    HUGO. 


Architediure  was  the  only  freedom  of  expression  previous 
to  the  advent  of  Guttenberg.  It  could  inscribe  itself  within 
those  books  which  we  call  edifices;  freedom  of  thought  would 
have  been  burned  in  the  public  place  by  the  hand  of  the  execu- 
tioner in  the  form  of  manuscript,  had  it  been  so  imprudent  as 
to  choose  that  form  of  expression ;  thoughts  engraved  over  the 
door  of  a  church  would  have  witnessed  their  own  execution  when 
printed  upon  the  pages  of  a  book. 

Thus  having  alone  in  masonry  a  channel  of  expression,  it 
left  no  opportunity  neglected.  Hence  the  immense  number  of 
cathedrals  which  covered  Europe — a  number  so  prodigious  as 
to  seem  almost  incredible,  even  after  it  had  been  verified.  All 
the  material  forces,  all  the  intellectual  forces,  converged  towards 
the  same  point,  architecture.  In  this  manner,  under  the  pretext 
of  building  churches  to  God,  art  developed  in 

magnificent  proportions.  J^^     ^ , 

o  ^^  r       1  Usstfos  the 

Thus,  down    to   the  days  of   Guttenberg,  Other. 

architecture  is  the  principal,  the  universal  writ- 
ing. This  book  of  granite,  begun  by  the  Orient,  was  continued 
by  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity;  the  Middle  Ages  wrote  the  last 
page.  Moreover,  this  phenomenon  of  an  architecture  of  the 
people  succeeding  an  architecture  of  caste,  which  we  have  just 
observed  in  the  Middle  Ages,  repeats  itself  with  every  analogous 
movement  in  the  human  intelligence  in  the  other  great  epochs 
of  history.  Thus,  in  order  to  enunciate  here  only  summarily  a 
law  which  it  would  require  volumes  to  develop :  in  the  upper 
Orient,  the  cradle  of  the  primitive  races,  after  the  Hindu  archi- 
tecture, came  the  Phoenician,  that  opulent  mother  of  the  Arabic 
style :  in  antiquity,  after  the  Egyptian  architecture,  of  which  the 
Etruscan  form  and  the  Cyclopean  monuments  are  but  one  va- 
riety, came  the  Greek  architecture,  of  which  the  Roman  style  is 

lOI 


MY      FAVORITE 


only  a  prolongation,  surcharged  with  the  Carthaginian  dome;  in 
modern  times,  after  the  Roman  architecture,  the  Gothic.  And 
bv  separating  these  three  series  we  find  again  in  these  three  elder 
sisters,  Hindu  archite<ilure,  Egyptian  archite(!:lure,  Roman  archi- 
tedure,  the  same  symbol  —  that  is  to  say,  theocracy,  caste,  unity, 
dogmatism,  the  myth,  God;  and  for  the  three  younger  sisters, 
Phcenician  archited:ure,  the  Greek  and  the  Gothic  and  whatever 
may  be  the  diversity  of  form  inherent  in  their  nature,  the  same 
signification  in  each  —  that  is  to  say,  liberty,  the  people,  man. 
In  all  the  masonry  of  the  Hindu,  Egyptian,  or  Roman,  one 
feels  always  the  priest,  nothing  but  the  priest,  whether  he  be 
called  Brahmin,  Magian  or  Pope.  It  is  not  the  same  in  the 
architeftures  of  the  people.  They  are  more  rich  and  less  devo- 
tional. In  the  Phoenician  one  recognizes  the  merchant;  in  the 
Greek,  the  republican ;  in  the  Gothic,  the  citizen.  The  general 
characteristics  of  all  theocratic  archited:ure  are  immutability, 
horror  of  progress,  the  conservation  of  traditional  lines,  of  primi- 
tive types,  a  constant  bending  of  all  the  forms  of  nature  and 
mankind  to  the  incomprehensible  caprices  of  symbolism.  They 
are  books  of  darkness  which  only  the  initiated  can  decipher. 
Furthermore,  every  form  and  even  every  deformity  has  here  a 
sense  which  renders  it  inevitable.  Do  not  ask  the  Hindu, 
Egyptian  or  Roman  structures  to  change  their  design  or  improve 
their  statues.  Any  attempt  at  perfecting  would  be  impious. 
They  are  sufficiently  removed  from  their  religion  to  give  thought 
to  beauty  and  to  cherish  it;  they  have  a  human  sentiment 
mingled  with  the  divine  symbolism  under  whose  inspiration  they 
are  still  produced. 

Architecture  was  up  to  the  fifteenth  century  the   principal 

register  of  humanity.      During  this  period,  not  a  single  thought 

of  a  complicated  nature  appeared  in  the  world 

™     ,    ^ ,   ,        but  was  transformed   into  masonry;   all   popular 
lorch  and  the        .  ,  ,,  ,,        ...  ,         i      j    • 

Turk.  ideas  as  well  as  all   religious   law  had  its   monu- 

ments;  and  finally,  mankind   possessed  no  im- 
portant thought  which  has  not  been  written  in  stone.    And  why? 

I02 


BOOK-SHELF 


It  is  because  every  thought,  be  it  religious,  be  it  philosophical, 
seeks  to  perpetuate  itself;  it  is  that  the  ideas  that  have  moved 
one  generation  desire  to  move  other  generations  likewise,  and  to 
leave  their  trace. 

Indeed,  what  immortality  is  more  precarious  than  that  of  a 
manuscript?  How  much  more  durable,  solid  and  lasting  is  a 
book  of  stone !  To  destroy  the  written  word,  the  torch  and  the 
Turk  have  proved  sufficient.  To  demolish  the  builded  word,  a 
social  revolution,  a  terrestrial  revolution  is  necessary.  The  bar- 
barians have  passed  over  the  Coliseum ;  the  deluge,  perhaps, 
over  the  Pyramids. 

In  the  fifteenth  century  all  changes.  Human  thought  dis- 
covers a  medicine  by  which  to  perpetuate  itself,  not  alone  more 
durable  and  more  resisting  than  architecture,  but  still  more  simple 
and  easier.  Architecture  is  dethroned.  To  the  letters  of  stone 
of  Orpheus  are  about  to  succeed  the  letters  of  lead  of  Gutten- 
berg. 

"Alas!  Alas!  small  things  overcome  great  ones;  the  Nile 
rat  kills  the  crocodile,  the  swordfish  kills  the  whale,  the  book 
will  kill  the  edifice." 

The  invention  of  printing  is  the  greatest  event  in  history. 
It  is  the  mother  of  revolution.  It  is  a  total  renewal  of  the 
means  of  human  expression;  it  is  human  thought  which  divests 
itself  of  one  form  and  takes  on  another;  it  is  the  complete  and 
definite  changing  of  the  skin  of  that  symbolical  serpent  which 
since  Adam  has  represented  Intelligence. 

In  its  printed  form  thought  is  more  imperishable  than  ever; 
it  is  more  volatile,  more  intangible,  more  indestructible.      It  is 
mingled  with  the  very  air.     In  the  time  of  archi- 
tecture it  made  itself  a  mountain  and  took  pow-       ,  j  h^^  Fl  k 
erful  possession  of  a  century,  of  a  place.     Now,  of  Birds. 

thought  is  transformed  into  a  flock  of  birds  which 
scatter  themselves  to  the  four  winds  and  occupy  at  once  every 
point  of  air  and  space. 

10-2 


Y     FAVORITE 


In  proportion  as  architedure  dies,  printing  swells  and  grows 
in  power.  The  capital  of  energy  which  human  thought  once 
expended  upon  buildings  is  expended  henceforth  upon  books. 
Indeed,  from  the  sixteenth  century,  the  press,  lifted  to  the  level 
of  diminished  architecture,  contends  with  it  and  conquers  it.  In 
the  seventeenth  century  the  press  has  gained  such  an  ascendancy, 
such  a  triumph,  such  a  victory  over  its  rival  as  to  give  to  the 
world  the  feast  of  a  great  literary  age.  In  the  eighteenth,  having 
reposed  for  a  long  time  at  the  court  of  Louis  XIV,  it  again 
seizes  the  old  sword  of  Luther,  places  it  in  the  hands  of  Voltaire 
and  rushes  forth  tumultuously  to  the  attack  of  ancient  Europe, 
whose  architediural  expression  it  has  already  destroyed.  At  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  it  has  destroyed  everything.  In 
the  nineteenth,  it  begins  to  reconstruct. 

Let  one  here  make  no  mistake;  architecture  is  dead ;  irrevo- 
cably dead,  killed  by  the  printed  book,  killed  because  less  last- 
ing, killed  because  of  greater  cost. 

Each  cathedral  represents  millions.     A  book  is  soon  made, 

costs   but  little,  and  can  go  so  far!      Why  should  there  be  sur- 

The  Great  Work     prise  that  all  human  thought  glides  through  this 

of  Humanity  Will    channel?     This  does  not  imply  that  architecture 

Be  Printed,  Not     shall  not  yet  here  and  there  produce  a  fine  monu- 

Construned.        rnent,  an  isolated  masterpiece.      But  architecture 

will  not  again  be  the  social  art,  the  collective,  the  dominant  art. 

The  great  poem,  the  great  edifice,  the  great  work  of  humanity 

will  no  longer  be  constructed;  it  will  be  printed. 

A  certain   amount  of  reverie  is  good,  like  a  narcotic  taken 

in  discreet  doses.      It  lulls   to  sleep  the   sometimes    harsh  fevers 

of  the  working  brain,  and  creates  in  the  mind  a 

„  soft  and  fresh  vapor  which  correCts  the  too  sharp 

outlines  of  pure  thought,  fills  up  here  and  there 

chasms  and  spaces,  binds  the  whole  together,  and 

rounds  the  angles  of  ideas.      But   excess  of  reverie  submerges 

and  drowns.      Woe  to  the  mental  workman  who  allows  himself 

104 


BOOK-SHELF 


to  fall  entirely  from  thought  into  reverie!  He  believes  that  he 
can  easily  rise  again,  and  says  that  after  all  it  is  the  same  thing. 
This  is  an  error !  Thought  is  the  labor  of  the  intelled:,  reverie 
is  its  voluptuousness.  To  replace  thought  by  reverie  is  to  con- 
found a  poison  with  food.  Les  Miserables. 

Nothing  is  small,  in  fad;;  any  one  who  is  affeded  by  the 
profound  penetrations  of  nature  knows  this.     Although  no  ab- 
solute satisfadiion  can  be  granted  to  philosophy, 
though  it  can   no   more  circumscribe   the   cause  Nothing 

than   it  can    limit   the  effecft,   the   contemplator  1'  Small. 

falls  into  unfathomable  ecstasy  when  he  watches 
all  the  decomposition  of  forces  which  result  in  unity.     Every- 
thing labors  for  everything.  Les  Miserables. 

That  a  society  may  be  swamped  by  the  wind  which  breaks 
loose  on  men  has  been  more  than  once  seen;   history  is  full  of 
shipwrecks  of  peoples  and  of  empires;  manners,  laws,  religions, 
some    fine    day,   that   unknown,  the    hurricane 
passes,  and  carries  them  all  away.  The  Wreck 

The  civilizations  of  India,  of  Chaldaea,  of  of  Nations. 
Persia,  of  Assyria,  of  Egypt,  have  disappeared 
one  after  the  other.  Why  ?  We  know  not.  What  are  the 
causes  of  these  disasters?  We  do  not  know.  Could  these 
societies  have  been  saved?  Was  it  their  own  fault?  Were  they 
obstinate  in  some  fatal  vice  that  destroyed  them?  What  amount 
of  suicide  is  there  in  these  terrible  deaths  of  a  nation  and  of  a 
race?  Questions  without  answer.  Darkness  covers  the  con- 
demned civilizations.  They  have  been  under  water  since  they 
were  engulfed;  we  have  nothing  more  to  say;  and  it  is  with  a 
sort  of  terror  that  we  see  in  the  background  of  that  sea  which 
is  called  the  past,  behind  those  colossal  waves,  the  centuries,  the 
foundering  of  those  immense  ships,  Babylon,  Nineveh,  Tarsus, 
Thebes,  Rome,  under  the  terrific  blast  which  blows  from  all  the 
mouths  of  darkness.  But  there  was  darkness  there,  light  here. 
We  are  ignorant  of  the  diseases  of  ancient  civilizations,  we  know 

105 


MY      FAVORITE 


the  infirmities  of  our  own.  We  have  everywhere  upon  it  the 
rights  of  light;  we  contemplate  its  beauties  and  we  lay  bare  its 
deformities.  Where  it  is  unsound  we  probe  it;  and  at  once  the 
suffering  is  located,  the  study  of  the  cause  leads  to  the  discovery 

of  the  remedy.  Our  civilization,  the  work  of 
7'be  Wrecks  twenty  centuries,  is  at  once  the  monster  and  the 
of  Nations.         prodigy;  it  is  worth  saving.     It  will   be   saved. 

To  assuage  it  is  much ;  to  enlighten  it  is  also 
something.  All  the  labors  of  modern  social  philosophy  ought 
to  converge  toward  this  end.  The  thinker  of  today  has  a 
great  duty,  to  auscultate  civilization.  Les  Miserables. 

Great   griefs   contain   exhaustion.     They  discourage  exist- 
ence.    The   man   into  whom   they  enter   feels  something  retire 
from   him.      In  youth  their  visit  is  lugubrious; 
,,     /  r  ■  /"        later,  it  is  sinister.     Alas,  when  the  blood  is  hot, 
when  the  hair  is   black,  when  the   head   is  eredk 
upon   the   body  like   the   flame    on   the  candle, 
when  the  sheaf   of  destiny  is  still   full  with   depth,  when  the 
heart  full  of  a  desirable  love  still  has  palpitations  that  may  meet 
with   a  return,  when  a  man   has  time   before   him   in  which  to 
recover,  when  all  women  are  there,  and  all   the  smiles,  and  all 
the  fliture,  and  the  whole  horizon,  when  the  strength  of  life  is 
complete,  if  despair  be  a  frightful  thing,  what  is  it  then  in  old 
age,  when   years  are  growing  more  and  more  livid,  at  that  twi- 
light hour  when  men  begin  to  see  the  stars  of  the  tomb! 

Les  Miserables. 

Moreover,  what  is  called  much  too  harshly,  in  certain  cases, 

the  ingratitude  of  children,  is  not  always  as  blameworthy  a  thing 

as  might  be  supposed.      It  is  the  ingratitude  of 

Ingratitude        nature.      Nature,    as    we    have    said    elsewhere, 

of  Children.        "  looks  forward."      Nature  divides  living  beings 

into   arrivals  and    departures.     The   departures 

are  turned   toward   the   darkness,  the   arrivals  toward    the   light. 

Hence  a  separation,  which,  on   the  part  of  the  old,  is  fatal,  and 

I  06 


BOOK 


SHELF 


on  the  part  of  the  young  is  involuntary,  and  this  separation,  at 
first  insensible,  increases  slowly,  like  every  separation  of  branches. 
The  limbs,  without  detaching  themselves  from  the  parent  stem, 
recede  from  it.  It  is  not  their  fault.  Youth  goes  where  there 
is  joy,  to  festivals,  to  bright  lights,  to  loves.  Old  age  goes 
toward  the  end.  They  do  not  lose  sight  of  each  other,  but 
there  is  no  longer  a  connecting  tie.  The  young  feel  the  chill 
of  life;  the  old  that  of  the  tomb.  Let  us  not  blame  these  poor 
children.  Les  Miserables. 


107 


MY      FAVORITE 


DAVID     HUME. 


Whoever  has  passed  an  evening  with  serious  melancholy 

people,  and  has  observed  how  suddenly  the  conversation  was 

animated,  and  what  sprightliness  diffused  itself 

^,     ^  ,  over  the  countenance,  discourse,  and  behaviour 

Lbeertulness.  ^  ,  •  r  i 

or  every  one,  on  the  accession  or  a  good- 
humoured,  lively  companion;  such  a  one  will 
easily  allow,  that  cheerfulness  carries  great  merit  with  it,  and 
naturally  conciliates  the  good-will  of  mankind.  No  quality,  in- 
deed, more  readily  communicates  itself  to  all  around;  because 
no  one  has  a  greater  propensity  to  display  itself,  in  jovial  talk 
and  pleasant  entertainment.  The  flame  spreads  through  the 
whole  circle;  and  the  most  sullen  and  morose  are  often  caught 
by  it.  That  the  melancholy  hate  the  merry,  even  though 
Horace  says  it,  I  have  some  difficulty  to  allow;  because  I  have 
always  observed,  that,  where  the  jollity  is  moderate  and  decent, 
serious  people  are  so  much  the  more  delighted,  as  it  dissipates 
the  gloom,  with  which  they  are  commonly  oppressed,  and  gives 
them  an  unusual  enjoyment. 

From   this  influence  of  cheerfulness,  both  to  communicate 
itself  and  to  engage  approbation,  we  may  perceive  that  there  is 
another  set  of   mental   qualities,  which,  without 
Contagion         any    Utility   or    any   tendency    to    farther    good 
of  Sympathy.        either  of  the  community  or    of  the    possessor, 
difl^use  a  satisfaction  on   the  beholders,  and  pro- 
cure friendship  and  regard.      Their  immediate  sensation  to  the 
person    possessed  of  them  is  agreeable;    others  enter  into  the 
same  humour  and  catch  the  sentiment,  by  a  contagion  or  natural 
sympathy;   and   as  we  cannot  forbear  loving   whatever  pleases, 
a    kindly    emotion    arises    towards    the  person  who    communi- 
cates so  much  satisfaction.      He  is  a  more  animating  spectacle: 
his   presence   diffuses    over    us     more   serene    complacency  and 


io8 


BOOK-SHELF 


enjoyment;  our  imagination,  entering  into  his  feelings  and 
disposition,  is  affed:ed  in  a  more  agreeable  manner,  than  if  a 
melancholy,  dejed:ed,  sullen,  anxious  temper  were  presented  to 
us.  Hence  the  affec^iion  and  approbation,  which  attend  the 
former;  the  aversion  and  disgust  with  which  we  regard  the 
latter. 

Few  men  would  envy  the  charadier  which  Caesar  gives  of 
Cassius : — 

He  loves  no  play. 
As  thou  do' St  Anthony;   he  hears  no  music; 
Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort. 
As  if  he  mocked  himself,  and  scorned  his  spirit 
That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  any  thing. 

Not  only  such  men,  as  Caesar  adds,  are  commonly  dangerous,  but 
also,  having  little  enjoyment  within  themselves,  they  can  never 
become  agreeable  to  others,  or  contribute  to  social  entertain- 
ment. In  all  polite  nations  and  ages,  a  relish  for  pleasure,  if 
accompanied  with  temperance  and  decency,  is  esteemed  a  con- 
siderable merit,  even  in  the  greatest  men;  and  becomes  still 
more  requisite  in  those  of  inferior  rank  and  character.  It  is  an 
agreeable  representation,  which  a  French  writer  gives  of  the  sit- 
uation of  his  own  mind  in  this  particular,  "Virtue  I  love,"  says 
he,  "without  austerity;  pleasure  without  effeminacy;  and  life 
without  fearing  its  end." 

Who  is  not  struck  with  any  signal  instance  of  Greatness  of 
Mind,  or  Dignity  of  Character,   with    elevation  of  sentiment, 
disdain  of  slavery,  and  with  that  noble  pride  and 
spirit  which  arises   from  conscious  virtue?     The  Tbe 

sublime,  says  Longinus,  is  often  nothing  but  the  Sublime  Echo. 
echo  or  image  of  magnanimity;  and  where  this 
quality  appears  in  any  one,  even  though  a  syllable  be  not  uttered, 
it  excites  our  applause  and  admiration;  as  may  be  observed  of 
the  famous  silence  of  Ajax  in  the  Odyssey,  which  expresses 
more  noble  disdain  and  resolute  indignation  than  any  language 
can  convey. 

109 


MY      FAVORITE 


Were  I  Alexander,  said  Parmenio,  I  would  accept  of  these 
offers    made    by    Darius.      So  would    I    too,   replied  Alexander, 
were  /   Parmenio.     This   saying   is    admirable, 
Put  Toursef       ^        Longinus,  from  a  like  principle. 
in  Another's  "^      r^     ,         •  i  i  ^    i  •  i  j- 

Pl^^^,  Cjo  !    cries   the  same   hero   to  his  soldiers, 

when  they  refused  to  follow  him  to  the  Indies, 
go,  tell  your  countrymen  that  you  left  Alexander  completing 
the  conquest  of  the  world. 

"Alexander,"  said  the  Prince  of  Conde,  who  always  admired 

this  passage,  "abandoned  by  his  soldiers  among  barbarians,  not 

yet  fully  subdued,  felt  in  himself  such  a  dignity 

The  Dignity       and  right  of  empire,  that  he  could  not  believe 

of  Alexander.       it  possible   that  any  one  would  refuse  to  obey 

him.     Whether  in   Europe  or  in  Asia,  among 

Greeks   or   Persians,   all   was   indifferent  to    him;    wherever   he 

found  men,  he  fancied  he  should  find  subjefts." 


1  10 


BOOK-SHELF 


LEIGH     HUNT 


I   like  to  begin  a  lefture  with  a  good  charitable  exordium: 
In  the  first  place,  I   have  need  of  it  myself;    and  secondly,  I 
have   observed    that    advice   always  does    more 
harm  than   good,  if  it  does  not  see  fair  play.      I        r  h*" t  th 
must  observe  again,  then,  in  behalf  of  the  super-  ^^j 

fluous  diner,  particularly  if  he  is  studious  and 
sedentary,  that  there  may  be  reasons  for  his  roasting  of  eggs 
beyond  what  a  commonplace  moralist  may  discern. 

Study  exhausts  the  body.  Mental  excitement  demands 
with  a  loud,  I  do  not  say  always  with  a  lawful  voice,  the  help 
of  physical  nourishment.  A  poet  shall  come  to  table  from  a 
morning's  occupation,  his  nerves  shattered,  his  blood  thick  and 
melancholy  from  overdriving,  his  whole  soul  agitated  and  con- 
fused in  his  body,  in  which  it  has  been  at  supernatural  work.  I 
will  concede  that  in  this  very  work  he  has  been  sowing  seeds  of 
philosophy,  and  writing  couplets  on  temperance.  Let  the  fu- 
ture ages  that  are  to  benefit  from  his  inspiration  look  back  with 
an  eye  of  tenderness  rather  than  scorn  on  the  havoc  he  pro- 
ceeded to  make  among  the  dishes.  Perhaps  he  will  fast  to- 
morrow. At  least  they  will  have  the  benefit  of  his  remorse. 
Inspiration,  which  is  nothing  but  a  concentration  of  the  facul- 
ties upon  the  exercise  of  some  natural  talent,  is  a  mighty 
exhauster  of  the  stomach,  a  producer  of  morbid  appetites  and 
craving  desires  for  refreshment.  The  nerves,  trembling  from 
the  glowing  task,  demand  to  be  set  right  again;  the  blood,  hot 
and  dragging  with  fatigue,  calls  for  an  airy  lift.  He  had  better 
go  out  into  the  open  air,  and  take  exercise;  I  exhort  him  to  do 
so:  Milton  did  so:  the  greatest  of  his  brethren  have  been  surely 
temperate:  he  will  repent  bitterly  if  he  does  not.  No:  the  meat 
and  drink  come  in  and  the  deed  is  done. 

It  is  the  same,  in  proportion,  with  pleasure  and  melancholy 

I  1 1 


MY      FAVORITE 


of  all  sorts,  with  any   kind  of  overfatigue.      Fifty  things  may 
excuse  us  in   the  eye  of  charity;   climate,  anxiety,  troublesome 

tasks,  past  or  to  come,  bodily  or  mental  exhaus- 
Self-denial  tion,  from  whatever  cause;  nay,  the  cheerfulness 
in  Eating.  of  our  return   to  one's  friends  or  family.      But 

melancholy,  above  all,  claims  a  particular  ten- 
derness. It  is  a  hard  thing  when  a  man  has  been  in  trouble  all 
the  morning,  and  sees  nothing  but  trouble,  perhaps,  before  him 
in  the  afternoon,  to  deny  him  the  pleasure  of  tickling  his  palate 
a  little.  The  loss  of  a  very  little  satisfadiion  is  sometimes  a 
great  loss  in  this  world;  the  difficulty  of  foregoing  it  is  in  pro- 
portion. Let  the  abstaining  from  a  particular  dish,  or  the  get- 
ting up  from  dinner  without  a  full  stomach,  be  respected 
accordingly.  I  confess  that  I  had  more  difficulty  in  leaving  off 
butter  and  cheese  (which  happen  to  disagree  with  my  tempera- 
ment) than  in  volunteering  some  ad:ions,  which  the  world  would 
have  thought  less  easy.  The  satisfaction  of  having  one's  way, 
or  of  doing  what  we  can  to  have  it,  and  venting  one's  feelings 
on  account  of  what  we  think  just  and  honorable,  is  a  mighty 
and  reasonable  help  to  one's  virtue.  The  pinch  comes  when 
our  virtue  is  at  war  with  our  tendencies;  when  we  hold  to  it 
through  pain  and  anxiety,  and  when  we  doubt  whether  we  shall 
be  as  well  or  ill  thought  of  for  acting  up  to  our  consciences. 

Again  and  again,  therefore,  I  say,  let  justice  be  done  to  self- 
denial  in  matters  of  beef  and  port,  and  above  all,  I  say,  let 
those  consider  also  the  necessity  of  the  self-denial,  who  would 
fain  lighten  the  gathering  shadows  of  age  or  middle  life,  and 
retain  as  much  health  and  good  temper  as  they  can  for  them- 
selves and  others.  They  have  no  alternative  between  a  great 
deal  of  it  and  exercise.  The  more  they  exercise,  the  more  they 
may  indulge;  for  there  is  a  business  in  all  things;  and  citizens 
must  earn  their  dinners,  as  well  as  the  money  to  purchase  them, 
if  they  would  not  have  those  other  creditors  come  upon  them, 
spleen  and  gout.  I  do  not  say  that  they  require  nothing  to 
give  them  a  fillip.  Quite  the  contrary.  1  only  say  that  seden- 
tary eating  and   drinking   is   not  the  best;    that  the  good  effects 

I  I  2 


BOOK-SHELF 


of  it  are  not  lasting,  and  the  bad  ones  very  much  so;  and  that 
however  difficult  it  may  be  for  a  pleasant  fellow  to  deny  himself 
"t'other  plateful"  as  well  as  "t'other  glass,"  deny  it  he  must, 
or  his  comfort  some  day  will  be  grievously  denied  to  him.  He 
may  rub  his  hands  at  the  sight  of  his  dishes,  he  may  crow  over 
his  wine,  he  may  throw  sayings  (as  he  willingly  would  the  plates) 
at  the  heads  of  the  moral  and  the  musty ;  but  as  surely  as  he 
sits  there,  gay  and  contemptuous,  so  surely  will  he  find  the 
"black  ox's  foot"  come  upon  his  toes  under  the  table,  not  to  be 
lightened,  to  any  real  purpose,  by  all  the  effed:s  of  champagne. 
Age  is  always  supposed  to  bring  melancholy 
along  with  it.      I   do  not  believe  it.     I   believe  Reaping 

that  many  a  temperate  old  man,  who  has  never-  '^^  Whirlwind. 
theless  indulged  a  reasonable  appetite,  is  as 
cheerful  as  the  majority  of  young  ones.  But  age  will  have 
shadows  with  a  vengeance  if  it  has  been  intemperate;  and  middle 
Hfe  will  be  plunged  in  them  before  its  time.  Purple  faces  and 
a  jovial  corpulence  may  impose  upon  the  spectator;  but  the  sick 
gentleman  within  knows  what  his  tenement  consists  of.  A  fool 
may,  indeed,  go  to  his  grave  pretty  comfortably;  a  mere  animal, 
a  human  prize  ox,  may  swell  and  abuse  his  system  for  a  long 
time,  because  he  has  no  intelledl  to  be  hurt  by  it,  and  to  hurt 
him  in  turn ;  but  good  sense  in  the  head,  and  a  perpetual  con- 
tradiction of  it  in  the  stomach,  will  never  do  in  the  long  run. 
The  head  ought  to  rule ;  the  stomach  will  revenge  its  bad  gov- 
ernment by  sending  up  its  angry  ambassadors  of  megrims  and 
vapors ;  and  the  anxiety  and  irritability  of  the  ruler  will  in  time 
revenge  itself  on  the  stomach. 

Would  you  be  free  from  melancholy,  a  strong  and  cheerful 
man,  an  old  man  free  from   the   clouds  and  peevishness  of  old 
age?     Bathe,  exercise,  and    be   temperate,  that 
you  may  throw  off  ill  humors  at  the  pores,  and  Some 

have  your  soul  incrusted  with  sordidness  of  the      Hygienic  Hints. 
body.     As    much,  perhaps,  ought    to    be    said 
about  bathing  as  about  exercise.     There  is  a  story  of  a  Scotch- 


MY      FAVORITE 


woman,  who  attempted  to  drown  herself  in  a  fit  of  melancholy. 
She  was  taken  out  ot  the  water  in  a  doubtful  state,  and  under- 
went an  adive  rubbing,  according  to  the  process  of  the  Humane 
Society.  She  not  only  returned  to  life,  but  recovered  her  health 
and  spirits;  the  physicians  pronouncing,  that  twenty  to  one  her 
melancholy  was  entirely  due  to  her  dirt.  There  is  the  same 
readtion  in  this  respedl  as  in  the  other.  Melancholy  people  are 
apt  to  grow  careless  of  their  persons;  people  who  are  careless 
of  their  persons  grow  melancholy.  But  cleanliness  is  the  first 
of  the  virtues;  not  the  first  in  rank,  but  the  first  in  necessity. 
The  most  selfish  people  can  practise  it  for  their  own  sakes;  the 
rest  ought  to  pradise  it  for  themselves  and  others.  With  regard 
to  exercise,  judge  between  the  two  following  extremes:  A  fox- 
hunter  can  get  drunk  every  night  in  the  year,  and  yet  live  to  an 
old  age;  but  then  he  is  all  exercise  and  no  thought.  A  seden- 
tary scholar  is  not  able  to  get  drunk  once  in  a  year  with 
impunity;  but  then  he  is  all  thought  and  no  exercise.  Now 
the  great  objed:  is  neither  to  get  drunk,  nor  to  be  all  exercise, 
nor  to  be  all  thought;  but  to  enjoy  all  our  pleasures  with  a 
sprightly  reason.  The  four  ordinary  secrets  of  health  are,  early 
rising,  exercise,  personal  cleanliness,  and  the  rising  from  table 
with  a  stomach  unoppressed.  There  may  be  sorrows  in  spite 
of  these;  but  they  will  be  less  with  them;  and  nobody  can  be 
truly  comfortable  without. 

There  is  a  great  rascal  going  about  town  (a  traveller  to  boot 
in  foreign  countries,  particularly  in  the   East  and  in  the  South) 
who  does  a  world  of  mischief,  under  the  guise 
The  of  helping   you  to  a  digestion.      I   am   loath  to 

£/ue  Pill.  mention  him;  his  very  name  is  beneath  the  dig- 

nity and  grace  of  my  Platonic  philosophy.  But 
I  must.  He  talks  much  about  the  liver.  Sometimes  he  calls 
himself  the  Blue  Pill,  sometimes  one  thing,  sometimes  another. 
He  is  particularly  fond  of  being  denominated  "the  most  inno- 
cent thing  in  the  world."  Let  the  sufferer  beware  of  him.  He 
may  turn  his  company  to  advantage  a  few  times,  provided,  and 
only  provided,  he  does  not  anticipate  his  acquaintance,  or  let  him 

114 


BOOK-SHELF 


divert  him  from  his  better  remedies.  Wherever  he  threatens  to 
become  a  habit,  let  the  patient  take  to  his  heels.  Nothing  but 
exercise  can  save  him. 

He  is  only  surfeit  in  disguise;  a  perpetual  tempter  to  reple- 
tion, under  the  guise  of  preventing  the  consequences.  The 
excess  is  tempted,  and  the  consequences  are  not  prevented;  for, 
at  the  least,  one  ill  is  planted  in  the  constitution  instead  of 
another.  Disguise  the  scoundrel  as  we  may,  he  is  only,  in  a 
small  shape,  what  an  emetic  was  to  Vitellius,  or  a  bath  of  mud 
to  the  drunken  barbarian.  Sometimes,  with  an  unblushing  fore- 
sight and  intention,  he  is  even  taken  before  dinner!  Imagina- 
tion escapes  from  the  thought  of  an  abuse  so  gross. 

The  Wishing  Cap  Papers. 


115 


MY      FAVORITE 


HUXLEY 


So  far  as  that  limited  revelation  of  the  nature  of  things, 

which  we  call  scientific  knowledge,  has  yet  gone,  it  tends,  with 

constantly  increasing  emphasis,  to  the  belief  that, 

^^u"u"k  "°^  merely  the  world  of  plants,  but  that  of  ani- 

tTi  IPC  yy  poic  -K  11''  1'  1  1  11 

Universe.  mals;   not  merely  livmg  thmgs,  but  the  whole 

fabric  of  the  earth ;  not  merely  our  planet,  but  the 

whole  solar  system  ;  not  merely  our  star  and  its  satellites,  but  the 

millions  of  similar  bodies  which  bear  witness  to  the  order  which 

pervades  boundless  space,  and  has  endured  through  boundless 

time;  are  all  working  out  their  predestined  courses  of  evolution. 

It  may  be  safely  assumed  that,  two  thousand  years  ago, 
before  Caesar  set  foot  in  Southern  Britain,  the  whole  country- 
side visible  from  the  windows  of  the  room  in 
The  State  which  I  write  was  in  what  is  called  "the  state 
of  Nature.  of  nature."  Except,  it  may  be,  by  raising  a 
few  sepulchral  mounds,  such  as  those  which 
still,  here  and  there,  break  the  flowing  contours  of  the  downs, 
man's  hands  had  made  no  mark  upon  it;  and  the  thin  veil  of 
vegetation  which  overspread  the  broad-backed  heights  and  the 
shelving  sides  of  the  coombs  was  unaflfe^ted  by  his  industry. 

The  native  grasses  and  weeds,  the  scattered  patches  of 
gorse,  contended  with  one  another  for  the  possession  of  the 
scanty  surface  soil;  they  fought  against  the  droughts  of  summer, 
the  frosts  of  winter  and  the  furious  gales  which  swept,  with 
unbroken  force,  now  from  the  Atlantic,  and  now  from  the  North 
Sea,  at  all  times  of  the  year;  they  filled  up,  as  they  best  might, 
the  gaps  made  in  their  ranks  by  all  sorts  of  underground  and 
overground  animal  ravagers.  One  year  with  another,  an  aver- 
age population,  the  floating  balance  of  the  unceasing  struggle  for 
existence  among  the  indigenous   plants,  maintained  itself.      It  is 

ii6 


BOOK-SHELF 


as  little  to  be  doubted,  that  an  essentially  similar  state  of  nature 
prevailed  in  this  region  for  many  thousand  years  before  the 
coming  of  Caesar;  and  there  is  no  assignable  reason  for  denying 
that  it  might  continue  to  exist  through  an  equally  prolonged 
futurity,  except  for  the  intervention  of  man. 

Three  or  four  years  have  elapsed  since  the  state  of  nature 
to  which  I  have  referred  was  brought  to  an  end,  so  far  as  a  small 
patch  of  the  soil  is  concerned,  by  the  intervention  of  man.  The 
patch  was  cut  off  from  the  rest  by  a  wall ;  within  the  area  thus 
protedled,  the  native  vegetation  was,  as  far  as  possible,  extir- 
pated; while  a  colony  of  strange  plants  was  imported  and  set 
down  in  its  place.  In  short,  it  was  made  into  a  garden.  At  the 
present  time,  this  artificially  treated  area  presents  an  asped:  extra- 
ordinarily different  from  that  of  so  much  of  the  land  as  remains 
in  the  state  of  nature,  outside  the  wall. 

Trees,  shrubs,  and  herbs,  many  of  them  appertaining  to  the 
state  of  nature  of  remote  parts  of  the  globe,  abound  and  flour- 
ish.    Moreover,  considerable  quantities  of  vege- 
tables, fruits  and  flowers  are  produced,  of  kinds  The  State 
which  neither  now  exist,  nor  have  ever  existed,  of  Art. 
except  under  conditions  such  as  obtain  in  the 
garden;  and  which,  therefore,  are  as  much  works  of  the  art  of 
man  as  the  frames  and  glass-houses  in  which  some  of  them  are 
raised.     That  the  "state  of  art,"    thus  created  in  the  state  of 
nature  by  man,  is  sustained  by  and  dependent  on  him,  would  at 
once  become  apparent,  if  the  watchful  supervision  of  the  gar- 
dener were  withdrawn,  and   the  antagonistic  influences  of  the 
general  cosmic  process  were  no  longer  sedulously  warded  off,  or 
countera6led. 

The  walls  and  gates  would  decay ;  quadrupedal  and  bipedal 
intruders  would  devour  and  tread  down  the  useful  and  beautiful 
plants;  birds,  inseds,  blight,  and  mildew  would  work  their  will; 
the  seeds  of  the  native  plants,  carried  by  winds  or  other  agen- 
cies, would  immigrate  and  in  virtue  of  their  long-earned  special 
adaptation  to  the  local  conditions,  these  despised  native  weeds 
would  soon  choke  their  choice  exotic  rivals.     A  century  or  two 

117 


MY     FAVORITE 


hence,  little  beyond  the  foundations  of  the  wall  and  of  the 
houses  and  frames  would  be  left,  in  evidence  of  the  victory  of 
the  cosmic  powers  at  work  in  the  state  of  nature,  over  the  tem- 
porary obstacles  to  their  supremacy,  set  up  by  the  art  of  the 
horticulturist. 

So  long  as  the  state  of  nature  remains  approximately  the 
same,  so  long  will  the  energy  and  intelligence  which  created 
the  garden  suffice  to  maintain  it.  However,  the  limits  within 
which  this  mastery  of  man  over  nature  can  be  maintained  are 
narrow.  If  the  conditions  of  the  cretaceous  epoch  returned,  I 
fear  the  most  skillful  of  gardeners  would  have  to  give  up  the 
cultivation  of  apples  and  gooseberries;  while,  if  those  of  the 
glacial  period  once  again  obtained,  open  asparagus  beds  would 
be  superfluous,  and  the  training  of  fruit  trees  against  the  most 
favourable  of  south  walls,  a  waste  of  time  and  trouble. 

The  process  of  colonization  presents  analogies  to  the  for- 
mation   of   a  garden  which  are  highly  instructive.      Suppose  a 
shipload  of   English  colonists    sent   to    form  a 
^  ,    .  settlement  in  such  a  country  as  Tasmania  was 

ColoniZdtion.  .        ,  ....         rii  /^tj- 

m  the  middle  or  the  last  century.  (Jn  landmg, 
they  find  themselves  in  the  midst  of  a  state  of 
nature,  widely  diff^erent  from  that  left  behind  them  in  everything 
but  the  most  general  physical  conditions.  The  common  plants, 
the  common  birds  and  quadrupeds,  are  as  totally  distinft  as  the 
men  from  anything  to  be  seen  on  the  side  of  the  globe  from 
which  they  come.  The  colonists  proceed  to  put  an  end  to  this 
state  of  things  over  as  large  an  area  as  they  desire  to  occupy. 
They  clear  away  the  native  vegetation,  extirpate  or  drive  out  the 
animal  population,  so  far  as  may  be  necessary,  and  take  measures 
to  defend  themselves  from  the  re-immigration  of  either.  In 
their  place,  they  introduce  English  grain  and  fruit  trees;  English 
dogs,  sheep,  cattle,  horses,  and  English  men;  in  fad:,  they  set 
up  a  new  Flora  and  Fauna  and  a  new  variety  of  mankind, 
within  the  old  state  of  nature.  Their  farms  and  pastures  repre- 
sent a  garden  on  a  great  scale,  and  themselves  the  gardeners  who 

ii8 


BOOK-SHELF 


have  to  keep  it  up,  in  watchful  antagonism  to  the  old  regime. 

Considered  as  a  whole,  the  colony  is  a  composite  unit  introduced 

into  the  old  state  of  nature;  and,  thenceforward,  a  competitor 

in    the    struggle    for    existence,  to    conquer  or    be  vanquished. 

Under  the  conditions  supposed,  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  result, 

if  the  work  of  the  colonists  be  carried  out  energetically  and  with 

intelligent  combination  of  all   their  forces.      On  the  other  hand, 

if  they  are  slothful,  stupid,  and  careless ;  or  if  they  waste  their 

energies  in  contests  with   one  another,  the  chances  are  that  the 

old  state  of  nature  will  have  the  best  of  it.     The 

native  savage  will  destroy  the   immigrant  civil-  everston 

,  r     1        T-       I-   1  •        1      °     1       I  to  the  State  of 

ized  man;   or  the   linglish  animals  and  plants,  Nature. 

some    will    be    extirpated    by    their    indigenous 
rivals,  others  will  pass  into  the  feral  state  and  themselves  become 
components  of  the  state  of  nature.     In  a  few  decades,  all  other 
traces  of  the  settlement  will  have  vanished. 

In  the  modern  world,  the  gardening  of  men  by  themselves 
is  pradically  restrided  to  the  performance,  not  of  seledion,  but 
of  that  other  function  of  the  gardener,  the  creation  of  conditions 
more  favourable  than  those  of  the  state  of  nature;  to  the  end 
of  facilitating  the  free  expansion  of  the  innate  faculties  of  the 
citizen,  so  far  as  it  is  consistent  with  the  general  good.  And 
the  business  of  the  moral  and  political  philosopher  appears  to 
me  to  be  the  ascertainment,  by  the  same  method  of  observation, 
experiment,  and  ratiocination,  as  is  prad:ised  in  other  kinds  of 
scientific  work,  of  the  course  of  condudl  which  will  best  conduce 
to  that  end. 

That  which  lies  before  the  human  race  is  a  constant  struggle 
to  maintain  and  improve,  in  opposition  to  the  State  of  Nature, 
the    State   of  Art    of  an   organized   polity;    in 
which,  and  by  which,  man  may  develop  a  worthy  Downward 

civilization,    capable    of   maintaining    and    con-  Evolution. 

stantly  improving  itself,  until  the  evolution   of 
our  globe  shall   have  entered  so  far  upon  its  downward  course 

119 


MY      FAVORITE 


that  the  cosmic  process  resumes  its  sway;  and,  once  more,  the 
State  of  Nature  prevails  over  the  surface  of  our  planet. 

The  theory  of  evolution  encourages  no  millenial  anticipa- 
tions. If,  for  millions  of  years,  our  globe  has  taken  the  upward 
road,  yet,  some  time,  the  summit  will  be  reached  and  the  down- 
ward route  will  be  commenced.  The  most  daring  imagination 
will  hardly  venture  upon  the  suggestion  that  the  power  and  the 
intelligence  of  man  can  ever  arrest  the  procession  of  the  great 
year. 

Moreover,  the  cosmic   nature  born  with  us  and,  to  a  large 

extent,  necessary  for  our  maintenance,  is  the  outcome  of  millions 

of  years  of  severe  training,  and  it  would  be  folly 

''^,,..  ,        to  imagine   that  a  few  centuries  will  suffice  to 

Evolution  IVtthout         ,    ,      o.  ^  ,  i  i  •      i  j 

Bounds  subdue  its  masterrulness  to  purely  ethical  ends. 

Ethical  nature  may  count  upon  having  to  reckon 
with  a  tenacious  and  powerful  enemy  as  long  as  the  world  lasts. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  1  see  no  limit  to  the  extent  to  which 
intelligence  and  will,  guided  by  sound  principles  of  investiga- 
tion, and  organized  in  common  effort,  may  modify  the  conditions 
of  existence,  for  a  period  longer  than  that  now  covered  by  his- 
tory. And  much  may  be  done  to  change  the  nature  of  man 
himself.  The  intelligence  which  has  converted  the  brother  of 
the  wolf  into  the  faithful  guardian  of  the  flock  ought  to  be  able 
to  do  something  towards  curbing  the  instincts  of  savagery  in 
civilized  men. 

We  are  told  to  take  comfort  from   the   reflection  that  the 

terrible  struggle  for  existence  tends  to  final   good,  and   that  the 

suffering  of  the  ancestor  is  paid  for  by  the  in- 

„  creased  perfe(!:tion  of  the  progeny.     There  would 

Retrovression.         .  '..  .         ,.         ^oy. 

be   something  in    this  argument  ir,  in    Chinese 
fashion,   the    present    generation   could    pay    its 
debts  to  its  ancestors;   otherwise  it  is  not  clear  what  compensa- 
tion the  Eohippus  gets  for  his  sorrows  in  the  fad  that,  in  some 
millions   of  years   afterwards,  one   of  his   descendants  wins  the 

I  20 


BOOK-SHELF 


Derby.  And,  again,  it  is  an  error  to  imagine  that  evolution  sig- 
nifies a  constant  tendency  to  increased  perfed:ion.  That  process 
undoubtedly  involves  a  constant  remodelling  of  the  organism  in 
adaptation  to  new  conditions;  but  it  depends  on  the  nature  of 
those  conditions  whether  the  direction  of  the  modifications 
effedled  shall  be  upward  or  downward.  Retrogressive  is  as 
practicable  as  progressive  metamorphosis.  If  what  the  physical 
philosophers  tell  us,  that  our  globe  has  been  in  a  state  of  fusion, 
and,  like  the  sun,  is  gradually  cooling  down,  is  true,  then  the 
time  must  come  when  evolution  will  mean  adaptation  to  an  uni- 
versal winter,  and  all  forms  of  life  will  die  out,  except  such  low 
and  simple  organisms  as  the  Diatom  of  the  Ard:ic  and  Antarctic 
ice  and  the  Protococcus  of  the  red  snow.  If  our  globe  is  pro- 
ceeding from  a  condition  in  which  it  was  too  hot  to  support  any 
but  the  lowest  living  thing  to  a  condition  in  which  it  will  be 
too  cold  to  permit  of  the  existence  of  any  others,  the  course 
of  life  upon  its  surface  must  describe  a  trajedtory  like  that  of  a 
ball  fired  from  a  mortar;  and  the  sinking  half  of  that  course  is  as 
much  a  part  of  the  general  process  of  evolution  as  the  rising. 


121 


MY      FAVORITE 

JOHNSONIAN  A. 


"  Books  without  the  knowledge  of  life  are  useless,"  I  have 
heard  him   say;   "for  what  should  books  teach  but  the  art  of 
living?"     To  study  manners,  however,  only  in 
Knowledge         coffee-houses,  is    more    than    equally  imperfed:: 
of  Life.  the  minds  of  men  who  acquire  no  solid  learning, 

and  only  exist  on  the  daily  forage  that  they  pick 
up  by  running  about,  and  snatching  what  drops  from  their  neigh- 
bors as  ignorant  as  themselves,  will  never  ferment  into  any 
knowledge  valuable  or  durable;  but  like  the  light  wines  we 
drink  in  hot  countries,  please  for  the  moment,  though  incapable 
of  keeping.  In  the  study  of  mankind  much  will  be  found  to 
swim  as  froth,  and  much  must  sink  as  feculence,  before  the  wine 
can  have  its  effedt,  and  become  that  noblest  liquor  which  rejoices 
the  heart,  and  gives  vigor  to  the  imagination.  Piozzi. 

The  saying  of  the  old  philosopher,  who  observes,  that  "he 

who  wants  least  is  most   like  the  gods,  who  want  nothing,"  was 

a   favorite   sentence  with    Dr.  Johnson,  who   on 

„  his  own  part  required   less  attendance,  sick  or 

Lonvenatton,  n      i  t  i  r^ 

well,  than  ever  1  saw  any  human  creature.  Con- 
versation was  all  he  required  to  make  him  happy; 
and  when  he  would  have  tea  made  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, it  was  only  that  there  might  be  a  certainty  of  detaining  his 
companions  around  him.  On  that  principle  it  was  that  he  pre- 
ferred winter  to  summer,  when  the  heat  of  the  weather  gave 
people  an  excuse  to  stroll  about,  and  walk  for  pleasure  in  the 
shade,  while  he  wished  to  sit  still  on  a  chair,  and  chat  day  after 
day,  till  somebody  proposed  a  drive  in  the  coach;  and  that  was 
the  most  delicious  moment  of  his  life.  "  But  the  carriage  must 
stop  sometime,"  as  he  said,  "and  the  people  would  come  home 
at  last:"  so  his  pleasure  was  of  short  duration.  Piozzi. 

I  22 


BOOK-SHELF 


What  is  nearest  us  touches  us  most.  The  passions  rise 
higher  at  domestic  than  at  imperial  tragedies.  Piozzi. 

When  any  calamity  is  suffered,  the  first  thing  to  be  remem- 
bered is,  how  much  has  been  escaped.  Piozzi. 

All  unnecessary  vows  are  folly,  because  they  suppose  a  pre- 
science of  the  future  which  has  not  been  given  us.     They  are,  I 
think,  a   crime,  because   they  resign  that  life  to 
chance,  which  God  has  given  us  to  be  regulated  „ 

by  reason;    and  superinduce  a  kind  of  fatuity, 
from  which  it  is  the  great  privilege  of  our  nature 
to    be    free.      I    think   an    unlimited    promise    of  ading    by  the 
opinion  of  another  so  wrong,  that  nothing,  or  hardly  anything, 
can  make  it  right.  Piozzi. 

If  the  world  be  worth  winning,  let  us  enjoy  it;   if  it  is  to 
be  despised,  let  us  despise  it  by  convidion.     But  the  world  is 
not  to   be  despised,  but  as  it  is  compared  with 
something  better.     Company  is  in  itself  better      Mingling  with 
than  solitude,  and  pleasure  better  than  indolence.         '^^  World. 
Ex  nihilo  nihil  fit ^  says  the  moral  as  well  as  nat- 
ural philosopher.      By  doing  nothing,  and  by  knowing  nothing, 
no  power  of  doing   good   can   be  obtained.     He  must  mingle 
with   the   world  who   desires   to   be   useful.     Every  new  scene 
comprises  new  ideas,  enriches  the  imagination,  and  enlarges  the 
powers  of  reason,  by  new  topics  of  comparison.  Piozzi. 

Most  men  have  their  bright  and  their  cloudy  days;  at 
least,  they  have  days  when  they  put  their  powers  into  ad:ion, 
and  days  when  they  suffer  them  to  repose. 

Those  that  have  loved  longest,  love  best.  A  sudden  blaze 
of  kindness  may,  by  a  single  blast  of  coldness,  be  extinguished; 
but  that  fondness  which  length  of  time  has  connedied  with  many 
circumstances  and  occasions,  though  it  may  for  a  while  be  sup- 

123 


MY      FAVORITE 


pressed  by  disgust  or  resentment,  with  or  without  a  cause,  is 
hourly  revived  by  accidental  recollediion.     To  those  that  have 

lived  long  together,  everything  heard  and  every- 

Old  thing  seen,  recalls  some  pleasure  communicated. 

Friendships.        or  some  benefit  conferred,  some  petty  quarrel, 

or  some  slight  endearment.  Esteem  of  great 
powers,  or  amiable  qualities  newly  discovered,  may  embroider  a 
day  or  a  week ;  but  a  friendship  of  twenty  years  is  interwoven 
with  the  texture  of  life.  A  friend  may  be  often  found  and  lost; 
but  an  old  friend  never  can  be  found,  and  nature  has  provided 
that  he  cannot  easily  be  lost.  Piozzi. 

Visitors  are  no  proper  companions  in  the  chamber  of  sick- 
ness.    They  come  when   I   could  not  sleep  or  read;   they  stay 
till  I  am  weary;    they  force  me  to  attend  when 
Visitors  my  mind  calls  for  relaxation,  and  to  speak  when 

to  the  Sick.  my  powers  will  hardly  adtuate  my  tongue.  The 
amusements  and  consolations  of  languor  and 
depression  are  conferred  by  familiar  and  domestic  companions, 
which  can  be  visited  or  called  at  will,  and  can  occasionally  be 
quitted  or  dismissed;  who  do  not  obstrudt  accommodation  by 
ceremony,  or  destroy  indolence   by   awakening   effort. 

Piozzi. 

The  first  talk  of  the  sick  is  commonly  of  themselves;  but 
if  they  talk  of  nothing  else,  they  cannot  complain  if  they  are 
soon  left  without  an  audience.  Piozzi. 

Write  to   me   no  more  about  dying  with  a  grace!     When 
you  feel  what  I  have  felt  in  approaching  eternity,  in  fear  of  soon 
hearing  the  sentence  of  which  there  is  no  revo- 
"  Dying  with       cation,  you  will  know  the  folly;   my  wish  is,  that 
a  Grace.''         you  may  know  it  sooner.     The  distance  between 
the  grave  and  the  remotest  point  of  human  lon- 
gevity, is  but  very  little;  and  of  that  little  no  path  is  certain. 
You  knew  all   this,  and   I  thought  that    I   knew  it  too;    but  I 

124 


BOOK 


SHELF 


]r^I&l^i^H^^li>I^IM^l 


know  it  now  with  a  new  convidlion.      May  that  new  convidiion 
not  be  vain  !  Piozzi. 


The  following  is  a  Hst  of  the  prices  which  the  Streatham 
colleftion  of  portraits,  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  brought  at 
audion  in  May,  1816:  — 


Lord  Sandys  •  • 
Lord  Lyttleton  • 
Mrs.   Piozzi  •   • 

Goldsmith I  33 

Sir  J.  Reynolds  • 
Sir  R.  Chambers 
David  Garrick  • 
Baretti  .... 


Dr.    Burney  •    • 

Edmund    Burke 
Dr.  Johnson  •    . 


jQ.       s.  Purchased  by 

36    15,      Lady  Downshire,  his  heir; 
43      I,      Mr.  Lyttleton,  his  son; 
81    18,      S.  Boddington,  Esq.,  a  rich  mer- 
chant; 
7,      Duke  of  Bedford; 
128      2,      R.  Sharp,  Esq.,  of  Park  Lane; 

84     o.      Lady  Chambers,  his  widow; 
183    15,      Dr.    Charles  Burney,    Greenwich; 

31    10,      Stewart,  Esq.,  I   know  not 

who; 
84     o.      Dr.    C.    Burney,    of    Greenwich, 
his  son; 
252      o,      R.  Sharp,  Esq.; 
378      o,     Watson    Taylor,    Esq.      At    Mr. 
Taylor's  sale,   it  passed  into 
the  hands  of  Sir  Robert  Peel. 

Piozzi. 


He  repeated  poetry  with  wonderful  energy  and  feeling. 
He  was  seen  to  weep  whilst  he  repeated  Goldsmith's  character 
of  the  English  in  his  "Traveller,"  beginning  "Stern  o'er  each 
bosom,"  &c.  Hawkins. 

Johnson  asked  one  of  his  executors,  a  few  days  before  his 
death,  "Where  do  you  intend  to  bury  me?"  He  answered, 
"In  Westminster  Abbey."  "Then,"  continued  he,  "if  my 
friends  think  it  worth  while  to  give  me  a  stone,  let  it  be  placed 
over  me  so  as  to  proted  my  body." 


125 


MY      FAVORITE 


DAVID    STARR    JORDAN. 


"What  can  the  college  do  for  me?"  It  may  do  many 
things  for  you,  if  you  are  made  of  the  right  stuff;  for  you  can- 
not fasten  a  two-thousand-dollar  education  to  a  fifty-cent  boy. 
The  fool,  the  dude,  and  the  shirk  come  out  of  college  pretty 
much  as  they  went  in.  They  dive  deep  in  the  Pierian  springs, 
as  the  duck  dives  in  the  pond,  and  they  come  up  as  dry  as  the 
duck  does.  The  college  will  not  do  everything  for  you.  It  is 
simply  one  of  the  helps  by  which  you  can  win  your  way  to  a 
noble  manhood  or  womanhood.  Whatever  you  are,  you  must 
make  of  yourself;  but  a  well-spent  college  life  is  one  of  the 
greatest  helps  to  all  good  things. 

So,  if  you  learn  to  use  it  rightly,  this  the  college  can  do  for 

you:      It  will   bring  you  in  contact  with  the  great  minds  of  the 

past,  the  long  roll  of  those  who,  through  the 

,     J'^..    ^"j^       ages,  have  borne  a  mission   to  young  men  and 

for  Me?  young  women,   from    Plato  to    Emerson,  from 

Homer  and  Euripides  to  Schiller  and  Browning. 

Your  thought  will  be  limited  not  by  the  narrow  gossip  of  today, 

but  the  great  men  of  all  ages  and  all   climes  will   become  your 

brothers.      You   will    learn   to    feel  what   the    Greek   called   the 

"consolations  of  philosophy."     To  turn  from  the  petty  troubles 

of  the    day  to  the  thoughts  of  the   masters  is   to  go  from   the 

noise  of  the  street   through   the   door   of  a  cathedral.      If  you 

learn  to  unlock  these  portals,  no   power  on  earth  can  take  from 

you  the    key.      The  whole  of  your  life   must  be  spent  in   your 

own  company,  and  only  the  educated  man  is  good  company  for 

himself.     The    uneducated    man    looks  on   life  through    narrow 

windows  and  thinks  the  world  is  small. 

The  college  can  bring  you  face  to  face  with  the  great 
problems  of  nature.  You  will  learn  from  your  study  of  nature's 
laws   more   than    the   books   can   tell   you   of  the   grandeur,  the 

I  26 


BOOK-SHELF 


power,  the  omnipotence  of  God.  You  will  learn  to  face  great 
problems  seriously.  You  will  learn  to  work  patiently  at  their 
solution,  though  you  know  that  many  generations  must  each 
add  its  mite  to  your  work  before  any  answer  can  be  reached. 

It  is  true  that  thrift  sometimes  passes  beyond  virtue,  degen- 
erating into  the  vice  of  greed.  Because  there  are  men  who  are 
greedy — drunk  with  the  intoxication  of  wealth  and  power — we 
sometimes  are  told  that  wealth  and  power  are  criminal.  There 
are  some  that  hold  that  thrift  is  folly  and  personal  ownership  a 
crime.  In  the  new  Utopia  all  is  to  be  for  all,  and  no  one  can 
claim  a  monopoly,  not  even  of  himself.  There  may  be  worlds 
in  which  this  shall  be  true.  It  is  not  true  in  the  world  into 
which  you  have  been  born.  Nor  can  it  be.  In  the  world  we 
know,  the  free  man  should  have  a  reserve  of  power,  and  this 
power  is  represented  by  money.  If  thrift  ever  ceases  to  be  a 
virtue,  it  will  be  at  a  time  long  in  the  future.  Before  that  time 
comes,  our  Anglo-Saxon  race  will  have  passed  away  and  our 
civilization  will  be  forgotten.  The  dream  of  perfect  slavery 
must  find  its  realization  in  some  other  world  than  ours,  or  with 
a  race  of  men  cast  in  some  other  mold. 

A  man  should  have  a  reserve  of  skill.     If  he  can  do  well 
something  which  needs  doing,  his  place  in  the  world  will  always 
be  ready  for  him.      He  must  have  intelligence. 
If  he  knows  enough  to   be  good  company  for       A  Reserve  of 
himself  and  others,  he  is  a  long  way  on  the  road  ^^^^l- 

toward  happiness  and  usefulness.  To  meet  this 
need  our  schools  have  been  steadily  broadening.  The  business 
of  education  is  no  longer  to  train  gentlemen  and  clergymen,  as 
it  was  in  England;  to  fit  men  for  the  professions  called  learned, 
as  it  has  been  in  America.  It  is  to  give  wisdom  and  fitness  to 
the  common  man.  The  great  reforms  in  education  have  all  lain 
in  the  removal  of  barriers.  They  have  opened  new  lines  of 
growth  to  the  common  man.  This  form  of  university  extension 
is  just  beginning.  The  next  century  will  see  its  continuance. 
It  will  see  a  change  in  educational  ideals  greater  even  than  those 

127 


MY      FAVORITE 


of  the  revival  of  learning.  Higher  education  will  cease  to  be 
the  badge  of  a  caste,  and  no  line  of  usefulness  in  life  will  be 
beyond  its  helping  influence. 

The  man  must  have  a  reserve  of  character  and   purpose. 

He  must  have  a  reserve  of  reputation.      Let  others  think  well 

of  us;  it  will  help  us  to  think  well  of  ourselves. 

^  ^1       ""^'^    ,     No   man   is    free  who   has    not    his  own    good 

of  Lharatler  and  .    .  .  .,,  ,  .      ° 

Reputation  opmion.  A  man  will  wear  a  clean  conscience  as 
he  would  a  clean  shirt,  if  he  knows  his  neighbors 
exped  it  of  him.  He  must  have  a  reserve  of  love,  and  this  is 
won  by  the  service  of  others.  "He  that  brings  sunshine  into 
the  lives  of  others  cannot  keep  it  from  himself."  He  must  form 
the  ties  of  family  and  friendship;  that,  having  something  at 
stake  in  the  goodness  of  the  world,  he  will  do  something  toward 
making  the  world  really  good. 

When  an  American  citizen  has  reserves  like  these,  he  has 
no  need  to  beg  for  special  favors.  All  he  asks  of  legislation  is 
that  it  keep  out  of  his  way.  He  demands  no  form  of  special 
guardianship  or  protedion.  He  can  pay  as  he  goes.  The  man 
who  cannot  has  no  right  to  go.  The  flag  of  freedom  can  never 
float  over  a  nation  of  deadheads. 

In   his   relations  with  others,  the  scholar  must  be  tolerant. 
Culture  comes  from  contact  with   many  minds.      To  the  uncul- 
tured   mind,  things    unfamiliar    seem    uncouth. 
Culture  outlandish,    abhorrent.     A    wider    acquaintance 

Lomei  rrom  •   i       i  rr  •  r  •    i  i  • 

Contaa  ^\u\  the  aitairs  or  our  neighbor  gives  us  more 

respect  for  his  ideas  and  ways.  He  may  be 
wrong-headed  and  perverse;  but  there  is  surely  something  we 
can  learn  from  him.  So  with  other  nations  and  races.  Each 
can  teach  us  something.  In  civilized  lands  the  foreigner  is  no 
longer  an  outcast,  an  obje6t  of  fear  or  abhorrence.  The  degree 
of  tolerance  which  is  shown  by  any  people  toward  those  whose 
opinions  differ  from  their  own  is  one  of  the  best  tests  of  civili- 
zation. It  is  a  recognition  of  individuality  and  the  rights  of  the 
individual  in  themselves  and  in  others. 

128 


BOOK-SHELF 


A  Swiss  watchmaker  said  the  other  day:     "Your  American 
manufadlurers    cannot   establish    themselves    in    Europe.     The 
first  sample  you  send  is  all  right,  the  second  lot 
begins  to  drop  ofF,  the  third  destroys  your  rep-       p  v  ^  V 
utation,  and    the   fourth   puts  an  end  to    your  iVork. 

trade.  All  you  seem  to  care  for  is  to  make 
money.  What  you  want  is  some  pride  in  your  work."  If  this 
has  been  true  of  American  watchmakers,  it  should  be  true  no 
longer.  The  work  that  lasts  must  be,  not  the  quickest,  but  the 
best.  Let  it  be  done,  not  to  require  each  year  a  fresh  coat  of 
paint,  but  done  as  if  to  last  forever,  and  some  of  it  will  endure. 
This  world  is  crowded  on  its  lower  floor,  but  higher  up,  for  cen- 
turies to  come,  there  will  still  remain  a  niche  for  each  piece  of 
honest  work. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  training  of  the  hand;  but  all  training 
belongs  to  the  brain,  and  all  kinds  of  training  are  of  like  nature. 
The  hand  is  the  servant  of  the  brain,  and  can 
receive   nothing    of  itself.     There    is    no    such     .    ,    ^^    ^"      r- 

,  .  °  .    .  !•     •  -17/-  '-f  ^"^  oervant  of 

thmg  as  manual  trammg  as  distmguished  rrom  ^^^  Brain. 
training  of  the  intelled:.  There  is  brain  behind 
every  a(5t  of  the  hand.  The  muscles  are  the  mind's  only  ser- 
vants. Whether  we  speak  of  training  an  orator,  a  statesman,  or 
a  merchant,  or  a  mechanic,  the  same  language  must  be  used. 
The  essential  is  that  the  means  should  lead  toward  the  end  to 
be  reached. 

An  ignorant  man  is  a  man  who  has  fallen  behind  our  civil- 
ization and  cannot  avail  himself  of  his  light.     He  finds  himself 
in  darkness  in  an  unknown  land.     He  stumbles 
over  trifling  obstacles  because  he  does  not  under-     .,   „    ^[^  '\ 

,     ,        o      TT  1-      n    1  •  T-L         ^''  Darkness  but 

Stand  them.     He  cannot  direct  his  course.     1  he        ignorance.'' 
real  dangers  are  all  hidden,  while  the  most  inno- 
cent rock  or  bush  seems  a  menacing  giant.     He  is  not  master 
of  the  situation.     We  have  but  one  life  to  live;    let  that  be  an 
effedlive  one,  not  one  that  wastes  at  every  turn  through  the  loss 
of  knowledge  or  lack  of  skill.     What  sunlight  is  to  the  eye,  edu- 

I  29 


MY      FAVORITE 


cation  is  to  the  intelled:,  and  the  most  thorough  education  is 
always  the  most  pracflical.  No  traveler  is  contented  to  go  about 
with  a  lantern  when  he  could  as  well  have  the  sun.  If  he  can 
have  a  compass  and  a  map  also,  so  much  the  better.  But  let 
his  equipment  be  fitting.  Let  him  not  take  an  ax  if  there  be 
no  trees  to  chop,  nor  a  boat  unless  he  is  to  cross  a  river,  nor  a 
Latin  grammar  if  he  is  to  deal  with  bridge-building,  unless  the 
skill  obtained  by  mastering  the  one  gives  him  an  insight  into 
the  other. 

It  takes  a  thorough  education  to  make  a  successful  business 

man.      Not  the  education  of  the  schools,  we  say, —  and  it  may 

be  so;   but  if  so,  it  is  the  fault  of  the  schools. 

Education  Neces-     ^^      ^^   i  ^  ^^  ^^^j^^     ^^^  business  men,  as  well 

sary  to  Make  a  Good  ■^         T  j  •  l  c       • 

Business  Man       ^^  ^°  make  good  men  m  any  other  profession. 

They  ought  to  fit  men  for  life.  Why  do  the 
great  majority  of  merchants  fail?  Is  it  not  because  they  do  not 
know  how  to  succeed?  Is  it  not  because  they  have  not  the 
brains  and  the  skill  to  compete  with  those  who  had  both  brains 
and  training?  Is  it  not  because  they  do  not  realize  that  there 
are  laws  of  finance  and  commerce  as  inexorable  as  the  law  of 
gravitation?  A  man  will  stand  ered:  because  he  stands  in 
accordance  with  the  law  of  gravitation.  A  man  or  a  nation  will 
grow  rich  by  working  in  accord  with  the  laws  which  govern  the 
accumulation  of  wealth.  If  there  are  such  laws,  men  should 
know  them.     What  men  must  know  the  schools  can  teach. 

The  schools  will  indeed  do  a  great  work  if  they  teach  the 
existence  of  law.      Half  the  people  of  America  believe  this  is  a 

world  of  chance.      Half  of  them  believe  they 

Absurd  Belief      are  victims  of  bad  luck  when  they  receive  the 

in  Luck.  rewards  of  their  own   stupidity.      Half  of  them 

believe  that  they  are  favorites  of  fortune,  and 
will  be  helped  out  somehow,  regardless  of  what  they  may  do. 
Now  and  then  some  man  catches  a  falling  apple,  picks  up  a 
penny  from  the  dust,  or  a  nugget  from  the  gulch.  Then  his 
neighbors  set  to  looking  into  the  sky  for  apples,  as  though 
apples  came  that  way.     Waiting  for  chances  never  made  any- 

130 


BOOK-SHELF 


body  rich.  The  Golden  Age  of  California  began  when  gold  no 
longer  came  by  chance.  There  is  more  gold  in  the  black  adobe 
of  the  Santa  Clara  Valley  than  existed  in  the  whole  great  range 
of  the  Sierras  until  men  sought  for  it,  not  by  luck  or  chance, 
but  by  system  and  science.  Whatever  is  worth  having  comes 
because  we  have  earned  it.  There  is  but  one  way  to  earn  any- 
thing, that  is  to  find  out  the  laws  which  govern  production,  and 
to  shape  our  adions  in  accordance  with  these  laws.  Good  luck 
never  comes  to  the  capable  man  as  a  surprise.  He  is  prepared 
for  it,  because  it  was  the  very  thing  he  has  a  right  to  exped. 
Sooner  or  later,  and  after  many  hard  raps,  every  man  who  lives 
long  enough  will  find  this  out.  When  he  does  so,  he  has  the 
key  to  success,  though  it  may  be  too  late  to  use  it. 


131 


MY      FAVORITE 

CHARLES     LAMB. 


I  confess  that  I  do  feel  the  differences  of  mankind,  national 

or   individual,  to   an   unhealthy   excess.      I    can    look  with   no 

indifferent  eye  upon  things  or  persons.     What- 

Apathies  and       ever  is,  is  to  me  a  matter  of  taste  or  distaste ;  or 

Antipathies.        when  once  it  becomes  indifferent,  it  begins  to  be 

disrelishing.      I  am,  in   plainer  words,  a  bundle 

of  prejudices  —  made  up  of  likings  and  dislikings  —  the  veriest 

thrall  to  sympathies,  apathies,  antipathies.      In  a  certain  sense  I 

hope  it  may  be  said  of  me  that  I  am  a  lover  of  my  species.      I 

can  feel  for  all  indifferently,  but  I  cannot  feel  towards  all  equally. 

The   more  purely  English  word  that  expresses  sympathy  will 

better  explain  my  meaning.      I  can  be  a  friend  to  a  worthy  man, 

who   upon  another  account  cannot  be  my  mate  or  fellow.     I 

cannot  like  all  people  alike. 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my  friend  M. 

was   obliging  enough   to   read  and  explain   to   me,  for  the  first 

seventy  thousand   ages,  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting  it 

from  the  living  animal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  day. 

This    period   is    not    obscurely   hinted    at    by    their    great 

Confucius  in  the  second  chapter  of  his    Mundane   Mutations, 

where  he  designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by 

The  Origin  of      the  term  Cho-fang,  literally,  the  Cook's  holiday. 

Roast  Pig.         The  manuscript  goes  on  to  say,  that  the  art  of 

roasting,  or    rather   broiling    (which    I    take    to 

be  the  elder  brother),  was  accidentally  discovered  in  the  manner 

following: 

The  swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into  the  woods 
one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  colled  mast  for  his  hogs, 
left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son,  Bo-bo,  a  great  lub- 
berly boy,  who  being   fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as  younkers  of 

132 


BOOK-SHELF 


his  age  commonly  are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of 
straw,  which  kindling  quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over 
every  part  of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes. 

Together  with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian  make-shift 
of  a  building,  you  may  think  it),  what  was  of  much  more  im- 
portance, a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in 
number,  perished.  China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury  all 
over  the  East  from  the  remotest  periods  that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo 
was  in  the  utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think,  not  so  much 
for  the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he  could 
easily  build  up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches,  and  the  labour  of 
an  hour  or  two  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While  he 
was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and  wringing  his 
hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  those  untimely  suffer- 
ers, an  odour  assailed  his  nostrils,  unlike  any  scent  which  he  had 
before  experienced.  What  could  it  proceed  from  ?  Not  from  the 
burnt  cottage  —  he  had  smelt  that  smell  before  —  indeed  this  was 
by  no  means  the  first  accident  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred 
through  the  negligence  of  this  unlucky  young  fire-brand.  Much 
less  did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known  weed, 
herb,  or  flower.  A  premonitary  moistening  at  The  Origin  of 
the  same  time  overflowed  his  nether  lip.  He  Roast  Pig. 
knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped 
down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in  it.  He 
burnt  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them  in  his  booby 
fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  crumbs  of  the  scorched 
skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  (in  the  world's  life  indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known 
it),  he  tasted  —  crackling!  Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig. 
It  did  not  burn  him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked  his  fingers 
from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at  length  broke  into  his  slow 
understanding,  that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and  the  pig 
that  tasted  so  delicious;  and,  surrendering  himself  to  the  new- 
born pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of  the 
scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  down 
his  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid  the 


MY      FAVORITE 


smoking  rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and  finding  how 
affairs  stood,  began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoul- 
ders as  thick  as  hail-stones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more 
than  if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tickling  pleasure  which  he 
experienced  in  his  lower  regions  had  rendered  him  quite  callous 
to  any  inconveniences  he  might  feel  in  those  remote  quarters. 
His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he  could  not  beat  him  from  his 
pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  when,  becoming  a  little 
more  sensible  of  his  situation,  something  like  the  following  dia- 
logue ensued: 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  devouring? 

Is   it   not  enough  that  you   have   burnt  me  down  three  houses 

with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you,  but  you  must  be 

eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what — what  have 

The'  Origin  of      you  got  there,  I  say?  " 

Roast  Pig.  "  O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig,  do  come  and 

taste  how  nice  the  burnt  pig  eats!" 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his 
son,  and  he  cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that 
should  eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened  since  morn- 
ing, soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and  fairly  rending  it  asunder, 
thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still 
shouting  out,  "Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father,  only  taste  — 
O  Lord!"  with  such-like  barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming  all 
the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  abominable 
thing,  wavering  whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to  death  for 
an  unnatural  young  monster,  when  the  crackling  scorched  his 
fingers,  as  it  had  done  his  son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy 
to  them,  he  in  his  turn,  tasted  some  of  its  flavour,  which,  make 
what  sour  mouths  he  would  for  a  pretence,  proved  not  altogether 
displeasing  to  him.  In  conclusion  (for  the  manuscript  here  is  a 
little  tedious)  both  father  and  son  fairly  sat  down  to  the  mess, 
and  never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all  that  remained  of 
the  litter. 


BOOK-SHELF 


Bo-bo  was  stridlly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape,  for 
the  neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  of 
abominable  wretches,  who  could  think  of  improving  upon  the 
good  meat  which  God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange 
stories  got  about.  It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was 
burnt  down  now  more  frequently  than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires 
from  this  time  forward.  Some  would  break  out  in  broad  day, 
others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as  the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure 
was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze;  and  Ho-ti  himself, 
which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastising  his  son, 
seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At  length 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discovered,  and  father 
and  son  summoned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  incon- 
siderable assize  town. 

Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced  in 
court,  and  verdid:  about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of 
the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of 
which    the    culprits    stood    accused,    might    be      The  Origin  of 
handed  into  the  box.      He  handled  it,  they  all         ^o'^^t  Pig- 
handled  it,  and  burning  their  fingers,  as   Bo-bo 
and   his  father  had  done  before  them,  and  nature  prompting  to 
each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against  the  face  of  all  the  fadls, 
and  the  clearest  charge  which  judge  had  ever  given,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk,  strangers,  reporters,  and  all 
present — without  leaving  the  box,  or  in  any  manner  of  consul- 
tation whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdid:  of  Not 
Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the  mani- 
fest iniquity  of  the  decision;  and,  when  the  court  was  dismissed, 
went  privily,  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for 
love  or  money.  In  a  few  days  His  Lordship's  town  house  was 
observed  to  be  on  fire.  The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there 
was  nothing  but  fires  to  be  seen  in  every  direction.  Fuel  and 
pigs  grew  enormously  dear  all  over  the  distrid.  The  insurance 
offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop.  People  built  slighter  and 
slighter  every  day,  until  it  was  feared   that  the  very  science  of 


135 


MY      FAVORITE 


archited:ure  would  in  no  long  time  be  lost  to  the  world.  Thus 
this  custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  till  in  process  of  time, 
savs  niv  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like  our  Locke,  who  made  a 
discovery,  that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal, 
might  be  cooked  [burnt^  as  they  called  it)  without  the  necessity 
of  consuming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the 
rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by  the  string,  or  spit,  came 
in  a  century  or  two  later,  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such 
slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do  the  most  useful,  and 
seemingly  the  most  obvious  arts,  make  their  way  among  man- 
kind. 

Without   placing   too  implicit  faith   in  the  account  above 
given,  it  must  be  agreed,  that  if  a  worthy  pretext  for  so  danger- 
ous an  experiment  as  setting  houses  on  fire  (especially  in  these 
days)  could  be  assigned  in  favour  of  any  culi- 
The  Origin  of      nary  objed,  that  pretext   and   excuse   might  be 
Roast  Pig.        found  in  ROAST  PIG. 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers  —  things 
between  pig  and  pork  —  those  hobbledehoys  —  but  a  young  and 
tender  suckling  —  under  a  moon  old — guiltless  as  yet  of  the 
sty  —  with  no  original  speck  of  the  amor  immunditi^e^  the  heredi- 
tary failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet  manifest  —  his  voice  as  yet 
not  broken,  but  something  between  a  childish  treble,  and  a 
grumble  —  the  mild  forerunner,  or  praludium  of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  ancestors 
ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled  —  but  what  a  sacrifice  of  the  exterior 
tegument! 

There  is  no  flavour  comparable,  I  will  contend,  to  that  of 
the  crisp,  tawny,  well-watched,  not  over-roasted,  cracklings  as  it 
is  well  called  —  the  very  teeth  are  invited  to  their  share  of  the 
pleasure  at  this  banquet,  in  overcoming  the  coy,  brittle  resist- 
ance—  with  the  adhesive  oleaginous  —  O  call  it  not  fat — but  an 
indefinable  sweetness  growing  up  to  it — the  tender  blossoming  of 
fat  —  fat  cropped  in  the  bud  —  taken  in  the  shoot  —  in  the  first 
innocence  —  the  cream  and  quintessence  of  the  child-pig's  yet 
pure  food  —  the  lean,  not  lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal  manna  — 

136 


BOOK-SHELF 


or  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so)  so  blended  and  running 
into  each  other,  that  both  together  make  but  one  ambrosian 
result,  or  common  substance. 

Behold  him,  while  he  is  doing — it  seemeth  rather  a  refresh- 
ing warmth,  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so  passive  to.  How 
equably  he  twirleth  round  the  string! — Now  he  is  just  done. 

To  see  the  extreme  sensibility  of  that  tender  age,  he  hath 
wept  out  his  pretty  eyes — radiant  jellies — shooting  stars. 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how  meek  he  liethl 
Wouldst  thou  have  had  this  innocent  grow  up  to  the  grossness 
and  indocility  which  too  often  accompany  maturer  swinehood? 
Ten  to  one  he  would  have  proved  a  glutton,  a  sloven,  an  obsti- 
nate, disagreeable  animal — wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy  con- 
versation— from  these  sins  he  is  happily  snatched  away — 

Ere  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow  fade. 
Death  came  with  timely  care. 

His  memory  is  odoriferous — no  clown  curseth,  while  his  stomach 
half  rejedleth,  the  rank  bacon — no  coal-heaver  bolteth  him  in 
reeking    sausages — he    hath    a    fair    sepulchre    in    the    grateful 
stomach  of  the  judicious  epicure  —  and  for  such 
a  tomb  might  be   content  to   die.     He  is  the       The  Origin  of 
best  of   sapors.     Pine-apple    is    great.     She    is         -^^^-f'  P^g- 
indeed  almost   too  transcendent — a   delight,  if 
not  sinful,  yet  so  like  to  sinning,  that  really  a  tender-conscienced 
person  would  do  well  to  pause — too  ravishing  for  mortal  taste, 
she  woundeth  and  excoriateth  the  lips  that  approach  her — like 
lovers'  kisses,  she  biteth — she  is  a  pleasure  bordering  on  pain 
from  the  fierceness  and  insanity  of  her  relish — but  she  stoppeth 
at   the   palate — she  meddleth   not  with  the  appetite — and   the 
coarsest  hunger  might  barter  her  consistently  for  a  mutton  chop. 

Pig — let  me  speak  his  praise — is  no  less  provocative  of  the 
appetite  than  he  is  satisfactory  to  the  criticalness  of  the  censori- 
ous palate.  The  strong  man  may  batten  on  him,  and  the  weak- 
ling refuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 

Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  charaders,  a  bundle  of  virtues 


MY      FAVORITE 


and  vices,  inexplicably  intertwisted,  and  not  to  be  unravelled 
without  hazard,  he  is — good  throughout.  No  part  of  him  is 
better  or  worse  than  another.  He  helpeth  as  far  as  his  little 
means  extend,  all  around.  He  is  the  least  envious  of  banquets. 
He  is  all  neighbours'  fare. 

I  am  one  of  those,  who  freely  and  ungrudgingly  impart  a 
share  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  which  fall  to  their  lot  (few 
as  mine  are  in  this  kind),  to  a  friend.  I  protest  I  take  as  great 
an  interest  in  my  friend's  pleasures,  his  relishes,  and  proper  sat- 
isfactions, as  in  mine  own.  "  Presents,"  I  often  say,  "endear 
Absents."  Hares,  pheasants,  partridges,  snipes,  barn-door 
chickens  (those  "tame  villatic  fowl !"),  capons,  plovers,  brawn, 
barrels  of  oysters,  I  dispense  as  freely  as  I  receive  them.  I  love 
to  taste  them,  as  it  were,  upon  the  tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a 
stop  must  be  put  somewhere.  One  would  not,  like  Lear,  give 
everything.  I  make  my  stand  upon  pig.  Methinks  it  is  an 
ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  flavours,  to  extra-domiciliate, 
or  send  out  of  the  house,  slightingly  (under  pretext  of  friend- 
ship, or  I  know  not  what)  a  blessing  so  particularly  adapted, 
predestined,  I  may  say,  to  my  individual  palate — it  argues  an 
insensibility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in  this  kind  at  school. 
My  good   old  aunt,  who  never  parted  from  me  at  the  end  of  a 

holiday  without   stuffing  a   sweetmeat,  or  some 

The  Coxcombry      nice  thing,  into  my  pocket,  had  dismissed  me 

of  Charity.         one  evening  with  a   smoking  plum-cake,  fresh 

from  the  oven.  On  my  way  to  school  (it  was 
over  London  Bridge)  a  gray-headed  old  beggar  saluted  me  (I 
have  no  doubt  at  this  time  of  day  that  he  was  a  counterfeit)  I 
had  no  pence  to  console  him  with,  and  in  the  vanity  of  self- 
denial,  and  the  very  coxcombry  of  charity,  school-boy-like,  I 
made  him  a  present  of — the  whole  cake!  I  walked  on  a  little, 
buoyed  up,  as  one  is  on  such  occasions,  with  a  sweet  soothing 
of  self-satisfadtion ;  but  before  I  had  got  to  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  my  better  feelings  returned,  and  I  burst  into  tears,  think- 
ing how  ungrateful  I  had  been  to  my  good  aunt,  to  go  and  give 

•38 


BOOK-SHELF 


her  good  gift  away  to  a  stranger,  that  I  had   never  seen   before, 
and  who  might  be  a  bad  man  for  aught  I  knew;    and   then   I 
thought  of  the  pleasure  my  aunt  would  be  taking  in  thinking 
that   I — I   myself,  and  not  another — would  eat  her  nice  cake, 
and  what   should  I   say  to  her  the  next  time   I   saw  her;    how 
naughty  I   was  to  part  with  her  pretty  present, 
and  the  odour  of  that  spicy  cake  came  back  upon         Remorseful 
my  recolledion,  and  the   pleasure  and  curiosity        Self-Demal. 
I   had  taken  in  seeing  her  make  it,  and  her  joy 
when  she  sent  it  to  the  oven,  and  how  disappointed  she  would 
feel  that  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in  my  mouth  at  last — and 
I  blamed  my  impertinent  spirit  of  alms-giving  and  out-of-place 
hypocrisy  of  goodness,  and  above  all  I  wished  never  to  see  the 
face  again  of  that  insidious,  good-for-nothing,  old  gray  imposter. 

Our  ancestors  were  nice  in  their  method  of  sacrificing  these 
tender  victims.  We  read  of  pigs  whipped  to  death  with  some- 
thing of  a  shock,  as  we  hear  of  any  other  obsolete  custom. 
The  age  of  discipline  is  gone  by,  or  it  would  be  curious  to 
inquire  (in  a  philosophical  light  merely)  what  effed:  this  process 
might  have  towards  intenerating  and  dulcifying  a  substance  nat- 
urally so  mild  and  dulcet  as  the  flesh  of  young  pigs.  It  looks 
like  refining  a  violet.  Yet  we  should  be  cautious,  while  we  con- 
demn the  inhumanity,  how  we  censure  the  wisdom  of  the 
pradise.     It  might  impart  a  gusto. 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon  by  the  young  stu- 
dents, when  I  was  at  St.  Omer's,  and  maintained  with  much 
learning  and  pleasantry  on  both  sides,  "Whether,  supposing 
that  the  flavour  of  a  pig  who  obtained  his  death  by  whipping, 
superadded  a  pleasure  upon  the  palate  of  a  man  more  intense 
than  any  possible  suff^ering  we  can  conceive  in  the  animal,  is  man 
justified  in  using  that  method  of  putting  the  animal  to  death?" 
I  forget  the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.  Decidedly  a  few  bread 
crumbs,  done  up  with  his  liver  and  brains,  and  a  dash  of  mild 
sage.  But  banish,  dear  Mrs.  Cook,  I  beseech  you,  the  whole 
onion  tribe.     Barbecue  your  whole  hogs  to  your  palate,  steep 


MY      FAVORITE 


them  in  shalots,  stuff  them  out  with  plantations  of  the  rank  and 
guilty  garlic;  vou  cannot  poison  them  or  make  them  stronger 
than  they  are — but  consider,  he  is  a  weakling,  a  flower. 

To  be  strong-backed  and  neat-bound  is  the  desideratum  of 

a  volume.      Magnificence   comes   after.     This,  when  it  can   be 

afforded,  is  not  to  be  lavished  upon  all  kinds  of 

..  books  indiscriminately.      I  would  not  dress  a  set 

■^  '      of  magazines,  for   instance,  in    full   suit.     The 

deshabille,  or   half-binding  (with    Russia   backs 

ever)  is  our  costume.     A  Shakespeare  or  a   Milton  (unless  the 

first  editions),  it  were  mere  foppery  to  trick  out  in  gay  apparel. 

The  possession  of  them  confers   no  distinction.     The  exterior 

of  them  (the   things  themselves  being  so  common)  strange  to 

say,  raises   no   sweet  emotions,  no  tickling  sense  of  property  in 

the  owner. 

Thomson's  Seasons,  again,  looks  best  (I  maintain  it)  a  little 
torn  and  dog's-eared.  How  beautiful  to  a  genuine  lover  of  read- 
ing are  the  sullied  leaves,  and  worn-out  appearance,  nay,  the  very 
odour  (beyond  Russia)  if  we  could  not  forget  kind  feelings  in 
fastidiousness,  of  an  old  "Circulating  Library"  Tom  Jones  or 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  !  How  they  speak  of  the  thousand  thumbs, 
that  have  turned  over  their  pages  with  delight!  Of  the  lone 
sempstress  whom  they  may  have  cheered  (milliner,  or  harder- 
working  mantua-maker)  after  her  long  day's  needle-toil,  running 
far  into  midnight,  when  she  has  snatched  an  hour,  ill  spared  from 
sleep,  to  steep  her  cares,  as  in  some  Lethean  cup,  in  spelling  out 
their  enchanting  contents!  Who  would  have  them  a  whit  less 
soiled?     What  better  condition  could  we  desire  to  see  them  in? 

Shall  I  be  thought  fantastical,  if  I  confess,  that  the  names 
of  some  of  our  poets  sound  sweeter,  and  have  a  finer  relish  to  the 
ear, —  to  mine,  at  least  —  than  that  of  Milton  or  of  Shakespeare? 

It  may  be,  that  the  latter  are  more  staled  and  rung  upon  in 
common  discourse.  The  sweetest  names,  and  which  carry  a  per- 
fume in  the  mention,  are  Kit  Marlowe,  Drayton,  Drummond  of 
Hawthornden,  and  Cowley. 

140 


BOOK-SHELF 


Much  depends  upon  when  and  where  you  read  a  book.     In 
the  five  or  six  impatient  minutes,  before  the  dinner  is  quite  ready, 
who  would  think  of  taking  up  the  Faerie  Queene 
for  a  stop-gap,  or  a  volume  of  Bishop  Andrewe's     ^     °"  '!i'''"\h 
sermons?      Milton    almost    requires    a    solemn  p^^^^ 

service  of  music  to  be  played  before  you  enter 
upon  him.  But  he  brings  his  music,  to  which,  who  listens,  had 
need  bring  docile  thoughts  and  purged  ears.  Winter  evenings, 
the  world  shut  out,  with  less  of  ceremony  the  gentle  Shakespeare 
enters.  At  such  a  season,  the  Tempest,  or  his  own  Winter's 
Tale;  these  two  poets  you  cannot  avoid  reading  aloud  —  to 
yourself,  or  (as  it  chances)  to  some  single  person  listening. 
More  than  one,  and  it  degenerates  into  an  audience. 

Books  of  quick  interest,  that  hurry  on  for  incidents,  are  for 
the  eye  to  glide  over  only.  It  will  not  do  to  read  them  out.  I 
could  never  listen  to  even  the  better  kind  of  modern  novels 
without  extreme  irksomeness.  A  newspaper,  read  out,  is  intol- 
erable. In  some  of  the  Bank  offices  it  is  the  custom  (to  save 
so  much  individual  time)  for  one  of  the  clerks  —  who  is  the 
best  scholar  —  to  commence  upon  the  Times  or  the  Chronicle, 
and  recite  its  entire  contents  aloud  pro  bono  publico.  With  every 
advantage  of  lungs  and  elocution,  the  effedt  is  singularly  vapid. 
In  barbers'  shops  and  public  houses  a  fellow  will  get  up,  and 
spell  out  a  paragraph,  which  he  communicates  as  some  discovery. 
Another  fellow  with  his  selection.  So  the  entire  journal  tran- 
spires at  length  by  piecemeal.  Seldom-readers  are  slow  readers, 
and  without  this  expedient,  no  one  in  the  company  would  prob- 
ably ever  travel  through  the  contents  of  a  whole  paper. 

A  poor  relation  is  the  most  irrelevant  thing  in  nature,  a 
piece  of  impertinent  correspondency,  an  odious  approximation, 
a  haunting  conscience,  a  preposterous  shadow  lengthening  in  the 
noontide  of  your  prosperity,  an  unwelcome  remembrancer,  a 
perpetually  recurring  mortification,  a  drain  on  your  purse,  a 
more  intolerable  dun  upon  your  pride,  a  drawback  upon  suc- 
cess, a  rebuke  to  your  rising,  a  stain  in  your  blood,  a  blot  on 

141 


MY      FAVORITE 


your  scutcheon,  a  rent  in  your  garment,  a  death's  head  at  your 
banquet,  Agathocles'  pot,  a  Mordecai  in  your  gate,  a  Lazarus 
at  vour  door,  a  lion  in  your  path,  a  frog  in  your  chamber,  a  fly 
in  vour  ointment,  a  mote  in  your  eye,  a  triumph  to  your  enemy, 
an  apology  to  your  friends,  the  one  thing  not  needful,  the  hail 
in  harv^est,  the  ounce  oi  sour  in  a  pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.      Your  heart  telleth  you  "that 

is    Mr.  ."     A   rap,   between   familiarity  and   respect;    that 

demands,  and,  at  the  same  time,  seems  to  despair 
The  Poor  of  entertainment.      He  entereth  smiling  and  em- 
Relation.  barrassed.      He  holdeth  out  his  hand  to  you  to 
shake,  and  draweth  it  back  again.      He  casually 
looketh   in   about   dinner   time — when    the  table   is   full.      He 
ofl^sreth  to  go  away,  seeing  you  have  company  —  but  is  induced 
to  stav.      He  filleth  a  chair,  and  vour  visitor's  two  children  are 
accommodated  at  a  side  table.    He  never  cometh  upon  open  days, 
when  vour  wife  says  with  some  complacency,  "  My  dear,  per- 
haps  Mr. will  drop  in  today."      He  remembereth  birth- 

davs,  and  professeth  he  is  fortunate  to  have  stumbled  upon  one. 
He  declareth  against  fish,  the  turbot  being  small  —  yet  suffereth 
himself  to  be  importuned  into  a  slice  against  his  first  resolution. 
He  sticketh  by  the  port, —  yet  will  be  prevailed  upon  to  empty 
the  remainder  glass  of  claret,  if  a  stranger  press  it  upon  him. 
He  is  a  puzzle  to  the  servants,  who  are  fearful  of  being  too 
obsequious,  or  not  civil  enough,  to  him.  The  guests  think 
"they  have  seen  him  before."  Every  one  speculateth  upon  his 
condition;  and  the  most  part  take  him  to  be  —  a  tide-waiter. 
He  calleth  you  by  your  Christian  name,  to  imply  that  his  other 
is  the  same  with  your  own.  He  is  too  familiar  by  half,  yet  you 
wish  he  had  less  diffidence.  With  half  the  familiarity  he  might 
pass  for  a  casual  dependent;  with  more  boldness  he  would  be  in 
no  danger  of  being  taken  for  what  he  is.  He  is  too  humble  for 
a  friend,  yet  taketh  on  him  more  state  than  befits  a  client.  He 
is  a  worse  guest  than  a  country  tenant,  inasmuch  as  he  bringeth 
up  no  rent — yet  'tis  odds,  from  his  garb  and  demeanour,  that 
your  guests  take  him  for  one.      He  is  asked  to  make  one  at  the 

142 


BOOK-SHELF 


whist  table;  refuseth  on  the  score  of  poverty  and  resents  being 
left  out.  When  the  company  break  up,  he  proffereth  to  go  for 
a  coach,  and  lets  the  servant  go.  He  recolleds  your  grand- 
father; and  will  thrust  in  some  mean  and  quite  unimportant 
anecdote  of — the  family.  He  knew  it  when  it  was  not  quite  so 
flourishing  as  "he  is  blest  in  seeing  it  now."  He 
reviveth    past    situations,   to   institute  what    he  The  Poor 

calleth — favourable  comparisons.   With  a  refledl-  Relation. 

ing  sort  of  congratulation,  he  will  inquire  the 
price  of  your  furniture;    and  insults   you  with  a  special  com- 
mendation of  your  window  curtains. 

He  is  of  the  opinion  that  the  urn  is  the  more  elegant 
shape,  but,  after  all,  there  was  something  more  comfortable 
about  the  old  tea-kettle  —  which  you  must  remember.  He  dare 
say  you  must  find  a  great  convenience  in  having  a  carriage  of  your 
own,  and  appealeth  to  your  lady  if  it  is  not  so.  Inquireth  if 
you  have  had  your  arms  done  on  vellum  yet;  and  did  not  know 
till  lately,  that  such-and-such  had  been  the  crest  of  the  family. 
His  memory  is  unseasonable;  his  compliments  perverse;  his 
talk  a  trouble;  his  stay  pertinacious;  and  when  he  goeth  away, 
you  dismiss  his  chair  into  a  corner,  as  precipitately  as  possible, 
and  feel  fairly  rid  of  two  nuisances. 

There  is  a  worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and  that  is  a  female 
Poor  Relation.     You  may  do  something  with  the  other;    you 
may  pass  him  off  tolerably  well;  but  your  indi- 
gent she-relative  is   hopeless.     "He   is  an  old     The  Female  Poor 
humourist"   you   may  say,  "and  affeds   to  go  Relation. 

threadbare.      His  circumstances  are  better  than 
folks  would  take  them  to  be.     You  are  fond  of  having  a  char- 
after  at  your  table,  and  truly  he  is  one."     But  in  the  indications 
of  female  poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise.     No  woman  dresses 
below    herself    from    caprice.      The    truth    must    out    without 

shuffling.     "She  is  plainly  related  to  the  L s;  or  what  does 

she  at  their  house?"  She  is,  in  all  probability,  your  wife's 
cousin.  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the  case.  Her 
garb  is  something   between  a  gentlewoman  and   a  beggar,  yet 

H3 


MY      FAVORITE 


the  former  evidently  predominates.  She  is  most  provokingly 
humble,  and  ostentatiously  sensible  to  her  inferiority.  He  may 
require  to  be  repressed  sometimes,  but  there  is  no  raising  her. 
You  send  her  soup  at  dinner,  and   she   begs  to  be  helped   after 

the  gentlemen.      Mr. requests  the  honour  of  taking  wine 

with  her;  she  hesitates  between  Port  and  Madeira,  and  chooses 
the  former,  because  he  does.  She  calls  the  servant  Sir^  and 
insists  on  not  troubling  him  to  hold  her  plate.  The  house- 
keeper patronizes  her.  The  children's  governess  takes  upon 
her  to  corredt  her,  when  she  has  mistaken  the  piano  for  a  harp- 
sichord. 

I  believe  that  there  are  constitutions,  robust  heads  and  iron 

insides  whom  scarce  any  excesses  can   hurt;   whom    brandy  ( I 

have  seen  them  drink  it  like  wine),  at  all  events 

5  '■"fi'^^""^      whom  wine,  taken  in  ever  so  plentiful  a  measure, 

of  iVine  on  ,  .    .  /         .  in 

Different  People.  ^^"  ^°  "°  worse  mjury  to,  than  just  to  muddle 
their  faculties,  perhaps  never  very  pellucid.  On 
them  this  discourse  is  wasted.  They  would  but  laugh  at  a  weak 
brother,  who  trying  his  strength  with  them,  and  coming  off  foiled 
from  the  contest,  would  fain  persuade  them  that  such  agonistic 
exercises  are  dangerous.  It  is  to  a  very  different  description  of 
persons  I  speak.  It  is  to  the  weak,  the  nervous;  to  those  who 
feel  the  want  of  some  artificial  aid,  to  raise  their  spirits  in  society 
to  what  is  no  more  than  the  ordinary  pitch  of  all  around  them 
without  it.  This  is  the  secret  of  our  drinking.  Such  must  fly 
the  convivial  board  in  the  first  instance,  if  they  do  not  mean  to 
sell  themselves  for  a  term  of  life. 

To  be  an  objed:  of  compassion  to  friends,  of  derision  to 
foes;  to  be  suspe(fted  by  strangers,  stared  at  by  fools;  to  be 
esteemed  dull  when  you  cannot  be  witty;  to  be  applauded  as 
witty  when  you  know  that  you  have  been  dull;  to  be  called 
upon  for  the  extemporaneous  exercise  of  that  faculty  which  no 
premeditation  can  give;  to  be  spurred  on  to  efforts  which  end 
in  contempt;  to  be  set  on  to  provoke  mirth  which  procures  the 
procurer   hatred;    to  give  pleasure  and  be  paid  with  squinting 

144 


BOOK-SHELF 


malice;  to  swallow  draughts  of  life-destroying  wine  which  are  to 
be  distilled  into  airy  breath  to  tickle  vain  auditors;  to  mortgage 
miserable  morrows  for  nights  of  madness;  to  waste  whole  seas 
of  time  upon  those  who  pay  it  back  in  little  inconsiderable 
drops  of  grudging  applause,  are  the  wages  of  buffoonery  and 
death. 

I   have  seen  a  print  after  Correggio,  in  which  three  female 

figures  are  ministering  to  a  man  who  sits  fast  bound  at  the  root 

of  a   tree.      Sensuality   is    soothing    him,    Evil 

Habit  is  nailing  him  to  a  branch,  and   Repug-     ^'""'^f'f'  ^"'  , 
<=>      .  -     .         '.  ,    .^    o     cepttoti  of  the  Moral 

nance  at  the  same  mstant  or  time  is  applying  a  Degenerate. 
snake  to  his  side.  In  his  face  is  feeble  delight, 
the  recolledion  of  past  rather  than  the  perception  of  present 
pleasures,  languid  enjoyment  of  evil  with  utter  imbecility  to 
good,  a  Sybaritic  effeminacy,  a  submission  to  bondage,  the 
springs  of  the  will  gone  down  like  a  broken  clock,  the  sin  and 
the  suffering  co-instantaneous,  or  the  latter  forerunning  the 
former,  remorse  preceding  adiion,  all  this  represented  in  one 
point  of  time.  When  I  saw  this,  I  admired  the  wonderful  skill 
of  the  painter.  But  when  I  went  away,  I  wept,  because  I 
thought  of  my  own  condition. 

Oh,  if  a  wish  could  transport  me  back  to  those  days  of 
youth,  when  a  draught  from  the  next  clear  spring  could  slake 
any  heats  which  summer  suns  and  youthful  exercise  had  power 
to  stir  up  in  the  blood,  how  gladly  would  I  return  to  thee,  pure 
element,  the  drink  of  children  and  of  child-Hke  holy  hermit! 
In  my  dreams  I  can  sometimes  fancy  thy  cool  refreshment  purl- 
ing over  my  burning  tongue.  But  my  waking  stomach  rejeds 
it.  That  which  refreshes  innocence  only  makes  me  sick  and 
faint. 

Twelve  years  ago,  I  was  possessed  of  a  healthy  frame  of 
mind  and  body.      I  was  never  strong,  but  I  think  my  constitu-* 
tion  (for  a  weak  one)  was  as  happily  exempt  from  the  tendency 
to  any  malady  as  it  was  possible  to  be.     I  scarce  knew  what  it 


MY      FAVORITE 


was  to  ail  anything.  Now,  except  when  I  am  losing  myself 
in  a  sea  of  drink,  I  am  never  free  from  those  uneasy  sensations 
in  head  and  stomach,  which  are  so  much  worse 
A  Sorrowful  to  bear  than  any  definite  pains  or  aches.  At  that 
Confession.  time  I  was  seldom  in  bed  after  six  in  the  morn- 
ing, summer  and  winter.  I  awoke  refreshed,  and 
seldom  without  some  merry  thoughts  in  my  head,  or  some  piece 
of  a  song  to  welcome  the  new-born  day.  Now,  the  first  feeling 
which  besets  me,  after  stretching  out  the  hours  of  recumbence 
to  their  last  possible  extent,  is  a  forecast  of  the  wearisome  day 
that  lies  before  me,  with  a  secret  wish  that  I  could  have  lain  on 
still,  or  never  awaked. 

Business  which,  though  never  very  particularly  adapted  to 
my  nature,  yet  as  something  of  necessity  to  be  gone  through, 
and  therefore  best  undertaken  with  cheerfulness,  I  used  to  enter 
upon  with  some  degree  of  alacrity,  now  wearies,  affrights,  per- 
plexes me. 

My  favourite  occupations  in  times  past  now  cease  to  enter- 
tain. I  can  do  nothing  readily.  Apphcation  for  ever  so  short 
a  time  kills  me. 


146 


BOOK-SHELF 


CHARLES    LEVER 


It  is  a  very  high  eminence  to  attain  when  a  man's  integrity 

and  ability  throw  such  a  light  about  him  that  they  illumine   not 

alone  the  path  he  treads  in  life,  but  shine  brightly 

on  those  who  follow  his  track,  making  an  atmos-    „,V!^jn'^  ^"  .t 
,.,,,  ..        o^^,.      Abtltty  Illumine  the 

phere  m  which  all  around  participate.      1  o  this        Path  of  Life. 

height  had  Dunn  arrived,  and  he  stood  the  con- 
fessed representative  of  those  virtues  Englishmen  like  to  honor, 
and  that  charader  they  boast  to  believe  national,  the  man  of  suc- 
cessful industry.  The  fewer  the  adventitious  advantages  he 
derived  from  fortune,  the  greater  and  more  worthy  did  he  appear. 
He  was  no  aristocrat,  propped  and  bolstered  by  grand  relatives. 
He  had  no  Most  Noble  or  Right  Honorable  connexions  to 
push  him.  He  was  not  even  gifted  with  those  qualities  that  win 
popular  favor, —  he  had  none  of  those  graces  of  easy  cordiality 
that  others  possess, —  he  was  not  insinuating  in  address,  nor 
ready  in  speech.  They  who  described  him  called  him  an  awk- 
ward, bashful  man,  always  struggling  against  his  own  ignorance 
of  society,  and  only  sustained  by  a  proud  consciousness  that 
whispered  the  "sterling  stuff  that  was  inside" — qualities  which 
appeal  to  large  audiences,  and  are  intelligible  to  the  many.  Ay, 
there  was  indeed  his  grand  secret.  Genius  wounds  deeply, 
talent  and  ability  offend  widely,  but  the  man  of  mere  common- 
place faculties,  using  common  gifts  with  common  opportunities, 
trading  rather  upon  negative  than  upon  positive  properties,  suc- 
ceeding because  he  is  not  this,  that,  and  t'other,  plodding  along 
the  causeway  of  Hfe  steadily  and  unobtrusively,  seen  by  all, 
watched  and  noticed  in  every  successive  stage  of  his  upward 
progress,  so  that  each  may  say,  "  I  remember  him  a  barefooted 
boy,  running  errands  in  the  street, —  a  poor  clerk  at  forty  pounds 
a  year, —  I  knew  him  when  he  lived  in  such  an  alley,  up  so 
many  pairs  of  stairs ! "      Strange   enough,  the  world    likes  all 

H7 


MY      FAVORITE 


-5"-^fnT  n  l^^i^  Q'inf  a  WWP  -^  ^ff?  a  InT-S— «^ 


this;  there  is  a  smack  of  self-gratulation  in  it  that  seems  to  say, 
"If  I  liked  it,  1  could  have  done  as  well  as  he." 

Success  in  life  won,  these  men  rise  into  another  atmosphere, 
and  acquire  another  appreciation.  They  are  then  used  to  point 
the  moral  of  that  pleasant  fallacy  we  are  all  so  fond  of  repeating 
to  each  other,  when  we  assert,  amongst  the  blessings  of  our  glori- 
ous Constitution,  that  there  is  no  dignity  too  great,  no  station  too 
high,  for  the  Englishman  who  combines  industry  and  integrity 
with  zeal  and  perseverance.  Shame  on  us,  that  we  dare  to  call 
fallacv  that  which  great  Lord  Chancellors  and  Chief  Justices 
have  verified  from  their  own  confessions;  nay,  we  have  even 
heard  a  Lord  Mayor  declare  that  he  was,  once  upon  a  time,  like 
that  "poor"  publican!  The  moral  of  it  all  is,  that  with  regard 
to  the  Davenport  Dunns  of  this  world,  we  pity  them  in  their 
first  struggles,  we  are  proud  of  them  in  their  last  successes,  and 
we  are  about  as  much  right  in  the  one  sentiment  as  in  the 
other. 

The  world, —  the  great  world  of  man, —  is  marvellously 
identical  with  the  small  ingredient  of  humanitv  of  whose  aggre- 
gate it  consists.  It  has  moods  of  generosity,  distrust,  liberality, 
narrowness,  candor,  and  suspicion, — its  fevers  of  noble  impulse, 
and  its  cold  fits  of  petty  meanness, —  its  high  moments  of  self- 
devotion,  and  its  dark  hours  of  persecution  and  hate.  Men  are 
judged  differently  in  different  ages,  just  as  in  every-day  life  we 
hear  a  different  opinion  from  the  same  individual,  when  crossed 
by  the  cares  of  the  morning  and  seated  in  all  the  voluptuous 
repose  of  an  after-dinner  abandonnement. 

Davenport  Dunn. 

Estrangement  from  the  world  often  imparts  to  the  stories 

of  the   past,  or  even  to  the   characters  of  fiction,  a  degree  of 

interest  which,  by  those  engaged  in  the  a6tual 

„.„  _  work  of  life,  is  only  accorded  to  their  friends  or 

Pitturinf'  Power  ,     .  '       .        ■'  ,  .  .   ,  .      ,        . 

of  Fanes  relatives;  and  thus,  to  this  young  girl  in  her  iso- 

lation, such  names  as  Raleigh  and  Cavendish  — 
such  charaders  as  Cromwell,  Lorenzo  de'Medici,    and    Napo- 

148 


BOOK-SHELF 


leon  —  stood  forth  before  her  in  all  the  attributes  of  well-known 
individuals.  To  have  so  far  soared  above  the  ordinary  accidents 
of  life  as  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  above  all  other  men, —  to  have 
seen  the  world  and  its  ways  from  an  eminence  that  gave  wider 
scope  to  vision  and  more  play  to  speculation, —  to  have  medi- 
tated over  the  destinies  of  mankind  from  the  height  of  a  station 
that  gave  control  over  their  adions, —  seemed  so  glorious  a  priv- 
ilege that  the  blemishes  and  even  the  crimes  of  men  so  gifted 
were  merged  in  the  greatness  of  the  mighty  task  they  had 
imposed  upon  themselves;  and  thus  was  it  that  she  claimed  for 
these  an  exemption  from  the  judgments  that  had  visited  less  dis- 
tinguished wrong-doers  most  heavily.  "How  can  I,  or  such  as 
I  am,  pronounce  upon  one  like  this  man?  What  knowledge 
have  I  of  the  conflid:  waged  within  his  deep  intelligence?  How 
can  I  fathom  the  ocean  of  his  thoughts,  or  even  guess  at  the 
difficulties  that  have  opposed,  the  doubts  that  have  beset  him? 
I  can  but  vaguely  fashion  to  myself  the  end  and  object  of  his 
journey ;  how,  then,  shall  I  criticise  the  road  by  which  he  travels, 
the  halts  he  makes,  the  devious  turnings  and  windings  he  seems 
to  fall  into?"  In  such  plausibilities  she  merged  every  scruple 
as  to  those  she  had  deified  in  her  own  mind.  "Their  ways  are 
not  our  ways,"  said  she;  "their  natures  are  as  little  our  natures." 

Davenport  Dunn. 

Most  men  who  have  attained  to  high  stations  from  small 
beginnings,  have  so  conformed  to  the  exigencies  of  each  new 
change  in  life  as  to  carry  but  little  of  what  they 
started  with  to  their  position  of  eminence;  grad-     ^,    ^   jp  t 
ually  assimilating    to  the  circumstances  around 
them  as  they  went,  they  flung  the  past  behind 
them,  only  occupied  with  those  qualities  which  should  fit  them 
for  the  future.  Davenport  Dunn. 

There  is  often  a  remarkable  fitness  —  may  we  call  it  a  "pre- 
established  harmony"? — between  men  and  the  circumstances  of 
their  age,  and  this  has  led  to  the  opinion  that  it  is  by  the  events 

149 


MY      FAVORITE 


themselves  the  agents  are  developed ;  we  incline  to  think  dif- 
ferently, as  the  appearance  of  both  together  is  rather  in  obedi- 
ence  to   some   overruling   edid:  of  Providence, 
The  Hour  and      which    has   alike    provided    the    work   and    the 
the  Man.  workmen.      It  would   be   a   shallow  reading  of 

history  to  imagine  Cromwell  the  child  of  the 
Revolution,  or  Napoleon  as  the  accident  of  the  battle  of  the 
sedions.  Davenport  Dunn. 


Honor. 


There's  great  promise  in  a  fellow  when  he 
can  be  a  scamp  and  a  man  of  honor.  When  dissi- 
pations do  not  degrade  and  excesses  do  not  cor- 
rupt a  man,  there  is  a  grand  nature  ever  beneath. 


Good  heavens !  how  little  do  we  know  about  our  children's 

hearts!     How  far  astray  are  we  as  to  the  natures  that  have  grown 

up  beside  us,  imbibing,  as  we  thought,  our  hopes, 

^      ^,.,,  our  wishes,  and  our  prejudices!     We  awake  some 

Our  Children.         .  ,.  i  ^\         •    a  u 

day  to   discover  that  some  other  mriuence  has 
crept   in   to  undo  our  teachings,  and    that   the 
fidelity  on  which  we  would   have  staked  our  lives  has  changed 
allegiance.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke. 

Vain  fellows  get  quizzed  for  their  vanity,  and  selfish  men 

laughed  at  for  their  selfishness,  and  close  men  for  their  avarice; 

but  there  is  a  combination   of  vanity,  egotism, 

up  Like  a         small  craftiness,  and  self-preservation  in  certain 
Rocket — Down       ^  ..  ,         .  ,,  *  ^^ii 

Like  a  Stick.  fellows  that  is  totally  repugnant  to  all  compan- 
ionship. Their  lives  are  a  series  of  petty  suc- 
cesses, not  owing  to  any  superior  ability  or  greater  boldness  of 
daring,  but  to  a  studious  outlook  for  small  opportunities.  They 
are  ever  alive  to  know  the  "right  man,"  to  be  invited  to  the 
"right  house,"  to  say  the  "right  thing,"  Never  linked  with 
whatever  is  in  disgrace  or  misfortune,  they  are  always  found  back- 
ing the  winning  horse,  if  not  riding  him.  Such  men  as  these,  so 
long  as  the  world  goes  well  with  them,  and  events  turn  out  fortu- 

150 


BOOK-SHELF 


nately,  are  regarded  simply  as  sharp,  shrewd  fellows,  with  a  keen 
eye  to  their  own  interests.  When,  however,  the  weight  of  any  mis- 
fortune comes,  when  the  time  arrives  that  they  have  to  bear  up 
against  the  hard  pressure  of  life,  these  fellows  come  forth  in  their 
true  colors,  swindlers  and  cheats.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  the  effeft  that  a  dodor's  presence 
produces  in  the  society  of  those  who  usually  consult  him, —  the 
reserve, —  the  awkwardness, —  the  constraint, — 
the  apologetic  tone  for  this  or  that  little  indis-        The  DoSior's 
cretion, —  the  sitting  in  the  draught  or  the  extra         Personality. 
glass  of  sherry.?     So  is  it,  but  in  a  far  stronger 
degree,  when  an  old  man  of  the  world  like  myself  comes  back 
amongst  those  he  formerly  lived  with, —  one  who  knew  all  their 
past  history,  how  they  succeeded  here,  how  they  failed  there, — 
what  led  the  great  man  of  fashion  to  finish  his  days  in  a  colony, 
and  why  the  Court  beauty  married  a  bishop.     Ah  sir,  we  are 
the  physicians  who  have  all  these  secrets  in  our  keeping.      It  is 
ours   to  know,  what  sorrow  is  covered  by  that  smile,  how  that 
merry  laugh  has  but  smothered  the  sigh  of  a  heavy  heart.      It  is 
only  when  a  man  has  lived  to  my  age,  with  an  unfailing  memory, 
too,  that  he  knows  the  real  hollowness  of  life, —  all  the  combina- 
tions falsified,  all  the  hopes  blighted, —  the  clever  fellows  that 
have   turned  out   failures,  or  worse   than  failures, —  the  lovely 
women  that  have  made  shipwreck  through  their  beauty.      It  is 
not  only,  however,  that  he  knows   this,  but  he  knows  how  craft 
and  cunning  have  won  where  ability  and  frankness  have  lost, — 
how  intrigue  and  trick  have  done  better  than  genius  and  integ- 
rity.    With   all   this  knowledge,  sir,  in  their  heads,  and  stout 
hearts  within  them,  such  men  as  myself  have  their  utility  in  life. 
They  are  a  sort  of  walking  conscience  that  cannot 
be  ignored.     The  railroad  millionaire  talks  less        The  Mirror 
boastfully  before  him  who  knew  him  as  an  errand-        of  the  Past. 
boy;  the  grande  dame  is  less  superciliously  inso- 
lent in   the   presence  of  one  who  remembered   her   in   a  very 
different  charader.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke. 


MY      FAVORITE 


Now,  the  value  the  world  sets  on  that  which  is  not  for  sale 
is  very  unlike  its  estimate  for  the  same  commodity  when  brought 
to  market.     The  light  claret   your  friend  pro- 
Purchased         nounced  a  very  pleasant  little  wine  at  your  own 
Flattery.  table,  he  would  discover,  when  offered  for  pur- 

chase, to  be  poor,  washy,  and  acrid.  The  horse 
you  had  left  him,  and  whose  performance  he  had  encomiumized, 
if  put  up  to  audion,  would  be  found  spavined,  or  windgalled, 
or  broken-down.  Such  a  stern  test  is  money,  so  fearfully  does 
its  coarse  jingle  jar  upon  all  the  music  of  flattery,  and  make 
discord  of  all  compliment.  To  such  a  pitch  is  the  process  car- 
ried, that  even  pretty  women,  who  as  wives  were  objed:s  of 
admiration  to  despairing  and  disappointed  adorers,  have  become 
by  widowhood  very  ordinary  creatures,  simply  because  they  are 
once  more  "  in  the  market." 

It  is  well  for  us  that  heaven  itself  was  not  in  the  "Price 
Current,"  or  we  might  have  begun  to  think  lightly  of  it.  At 
all  events  we'd  have  higgled  about  the  cost,  and  tried  to  get 
there  as  cheaply  as  might  be.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke. 

It  is  a  cruel  aggravation  of  the  ills  of  old  age  to  have  a 
heart  and  a  brain  alive  to  the  finest  sense  of  injury. 

We  know  very  little  what  are  the  sources  of  those  intem- 
perate outbreaks  we  so  often  complain  of, —  what  sore  trials  are 
ulcerating  the  nature,  what  agonizing  maladies, 
High-Strung       what  secret  terrors,  what  visions  of  impending 
Temperaments.      misery ;  least  of  all  do  we  know  or  take  count 
of  the   fa(5l  that  it  is  out  of  these   high-strung 
temperaments  we  obtain  those  thrilling  notes  of  human  passion 
and  tenderness  coarser  natures  never  attain    to.      Let  us   bear 
with   a  passing  discord  in   the   instrument  whose  cadences   can 
move  us  to  very  ecstasy.  Sir   Brook.  Fossbrooke. 

Stretched  upon  a  large  old-fashioned  sofa,  where  a  burgo- 
master   might    have    reclined    with     "ample    room    and    verge 

152 


BOOK-SHELF 


enough"  in   all   the   easy  abandonment  of  dressing-gown   and 
slippers;  the  cool  breeze  gently  wafting  the  window-blind  to  and 
fro,  and  tempering  the  lulling  sounds  from  wood 
and  water;  the  buzzing  of  the  summer  insedts,         Unrealized 
and   the  far-off  carol  of  a  peasant's   song, —  I  Hopes. 

fell  into  one  of  those  delicious  sleeps  in  which 
dreams  are  so  faintly  marked  as  to  leave  us  no  disappoint- 
ment on  waking:  flitting  shadow-like  before  the  mind,  they  live 
only  in  a  pleasant  memory  of  something  vague  and  undefined, 
and  impart  no  touch  of  sorrow  for  expectations  unfulfilled,  for 
hopes  that  are  not  to  be  realized.  I  would  that  my  dreams 
might  always  take  this  shape.  It  is  a  sad  thing  when  they 
become  tangible;  when  features  and  looks,  eyes,  hands,  words, 
and  signs,  live  too  strongly  in  our  sleeping  minds,  and  we  awake 
to  the  cold  reaHty  of  our  daily  cares  and  crosses,  tenfold  less 
endurable  from  very  contrast.  No !  give  me  rather  the  faint 
and  waving  outline,  the  shadowy  perception  of  pleasure,  than 
the  vivid  pi6lure,  to  end  only  in  the  conviction  that  I  am  but 
Christopher  Sly  after  all. 

Still  I  would  not  have  you  deem  me  discontented  with  my 
lot;  far  from  it.     I  chose  my  path  early  in  life,  and  never  saw 
reason  to  regret  the  choice.      How  many  of  you 
can  say  as  much?     I   felt  that  while  the  tender     The  Great  Prize 
ties  of  home  and  family,  the  charities  that  grow  i"  W^- 

up  around  the  charmed  circle  of  a  wife  and 
children,  are  the  great  prizes  of  life,  there  are  also  a  thousand 
lesser  ones  in  the  wheel,  in  the  kindly  sympathies  with  which 
the  world  abounds;  that  to  him  who  bears  no  ill-will  at  his 
heart — nay,  rather  loving  all  things  that  are  lovable,  with  warm 
attachments  to  all  who  have  been  kind  to  him,  with  strong 
sources  of  happiness  in  his  own  tranquil  thoughts  —  the  wander- 
ing life  would  oflFer  many  pleasures. 

Most  men  live,  as  it  were,  with  one  story  of  their  lives,  the 
traits  of  childhood  maturing  into  manly  features;  their  history 
consists  of  the  development  of  early  charader  in  circumstances 
of  good  or  evil  fortune.     They  fall  in  love,  they  marry,  they 


MY      FAVORITE 


grow  old,  and  they  die, —  each  incident  of  their  existence  bearing 

on  that  before  and  that  after,  Hke  Hnk  upon  link  of  some  great 

chain.     He,  however,  who  throws  himself  like 

L    »/  '"^.-  I       a  plank  upon   the  waters,  to  be  washed  hither 
(/ic-  Most  of  the  J      1  •  I     ^  -1  -1  1  •         1  •         1 

Present.  ^^'^  thither  as  wmd  or  tide  may  drive  him,  has 

a  very  different  experience.     To  him  life  is  a 

succession  of  episodes,  each  perfect  in  itself;   the  world  is  but 

a    number    of    tableaux,   changing    with    climate    and    country, 

—  his  sorrows   in   France  having   no    connection  with   his  joys 

in   Italy;   his  delights  in   Spain  living  apart  from   his  griefs  on 

the    Rhine.     The   past  throws   no  shadow  on   the  future;    his 

philosophy  is  to  make  the  most  of  the  present. 

Arthur  O'Leary. 

The   practised  eye   speedily   detedls    in   the   chara6ter  and 

arrangement  of  a  chamber  something  of  its  occupant.      In  some 

houses,  the  absence  of  all  decoration,  the  simple 

n       ,    ,  Puritanism  of  the  furniture,  bespeaks  the  life  of 

Reveals  the  .  ,         ,  .  i         •  i       r  i 

Man.  quiet  souls  whose  days  are  as  devoid  or  luxury 

as  their  dwellings.  You  read  in  the  cold  gray 
tints  the  formal  stiffness  and  unrelieved  regularity  around  the 
Quaker-like  flatness  of  their  existence.  In  others  there  is  an 
air  of  ill-done  display,  a  straining  after  effedt,  which  shows  itself 
in  costly  but  ill-assorted  details,  a  mingling  of  all  styles  and  eras 
without  repose  or  keeping.  The  bad  pretentious  pidures,  the 
faulty  bronzes,  meagre  casts  of  poor  originals,  the  gaudy  china, 
are  safe  warranty  for  the  vulgarity  of  their  owners;  while  the 
humble  parlor  of  a  village  inn  can  be,  as  I  have  seen  it,  made  to 
evidence  the  cultivated  tastes  and  polished  habits  of  those  who 
have  made  it  the  halting-place  of  a  day. 

We  might  go  back  and  trace  how  much  of  our  knowledge 
of  the  earliest  ages  is  derived  from  the  study  of  the  interior  of 
their  dwellings;  what  a  rich  volume  of  information  is  conveyed 
in  a  mosaic;  what  a  treatise  does  not  lie  in  a  frescoed  wall! 

Arthur  O'Leary. 


154 


BOOK-SHELF 


A  man's  own   resources  are  the  only  real  gratifications  he 
can  count  upon.      Society,  like  a  field-day,  may  offer  the  occasion 

to  display  your  troops  and  put  them   through 

^U    •  U    .    U   y  V    •  -^  Man's  Own 

their  manoeuvres;    but,  believe  me,  it  is  a  rare  „ 

Resources 

and  a  lucky  day  when  you  go  back  richer  by  ^/,^^  i/duable. 
one  recruit,  and  the  chance  is  that  even  he  is  a 
cripple,  and  must  be  sent  about  his  business.  People,  too,  will 
tell  you  much  of  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from  associating 
with  men  of  distinguished  and  gifted  minds.  I  have  seen  some- 
thing of  such  in  my  time,  and  give  little  credit  to  the  theory. 
You  might  as  well  hope  to  obtain  credit  for  a  thousand  pounds 
because  you  took  off  your  hat  to  a  banker. 

Arthur  O'Leary. 

Let  moralists  talk  as  they  will  about  the  serenity  of  mind 
derivable  alone  from  a  pure  conscience,  the  peaceful  nature  that 
flows  from  a  source  of  true  honor,  and  then  look 
abroad  upon  the  world  and  count  the  hundreds       The  Felicities 
whose   hairs  are  never  tinged  with  gray,  whose  of  Fraud. 

cheeks  show  no  wrinkles,  whose  elastic  steps 
suffer  no  touch  of  age,  and  whose  ready  smile  and  cheerful  laugh 
are  the  ever-present  signs  of  their  contentment, —  let  them  look 
on  these  and  refled:  that  of  such  are  nine-tenths  of  those  who 
figure  in  lists  of  outlawry,  whose  bills  do  but  make  the  stamps 
they  are  written  on  of  no  value,  whose  creditors  are  legion  and 
whose  credit  is  at  zero,  and  say  which  seems  the  happier.  To 
see  them,  one  would  opine  that  there  must  be  some  secret  good 
in  cheating  a  coachmaker,  or  some  hidden  virtue  in  tricking  a 
jeweller;  that  hotel-keepers  are  a  natural  enemy  to  mankind, 
and  that  a  tailor  has  not  a  right  even  to  a  decimal  fraction  of 
honesty.  Never  was  Epicurean  philosophy  like  theirs;  they 
have  a  fine  liberal  sense  of  the  blackguardisms  that  a  man  may 
commit,  and  yet  not  forfeit  his  position  in  society.  They  know 
the  precise  condition  in  life  when  he  may  pra6tise  dishonesty; 
and  they  also  see  when  he  must  be  circumsped.  They  have 
one  rule  for  the  city  and  another  for  the  club ;  and,  better  than 


MY      FAVORITE 

all,  they  have  stored  their  minds  with  sage  maxims  and  wise 
reflections,  which,  like  the  philosophers  of  old,  they  adduce  on 
every  suitable  occasion;  and  many  a  wounded  spirit  has  been 
consoled  by  that  beautiful  sentiment,  so  frequent  in  their 
mouths,  of — 

**Go  ahead  !   for  what's  the  odds  so  long  as  you're  happy?" 

Arthur  O'Leary. 

No  man's  heart  is  consecrated  so  entirely  to  one  passion  as 
a  gambler's.      Hope  with  him  usurps  the   place  of  every  other 

feeling,      Hope,   however    rude   the  shocks   it 

The  Gamester's      meets  from  disappointment,  however  beaten  and 

Hope.  baffled,  is  still  there;  the  flame  may  waste  down 

to  a  few  embers,  but  a  single  spark  may  live 
amid  the  ashes,  yet  it  is  enough  to  kindle  up  into  a  blaze  before 
the  breath  of  fortune.  At  first  he  lives  but  for  moments  like 
these;  all  his  agonies,  all  his  sufferings,  all  the  torturings  of  a 
mind  verging  on  despair  are  repaid  by  such  brief  intervals  of 
luck.  Yet  each  reverse  of  fate  is  telling  on  him  heavily  ;  the 
many  disappointments  to  his  wishes  are  sapping  by  degrees  his 
confidence  in  fortune.  His  hope  is  dashed  with  fear;  and  now 
commences  within  him  that  struggle  which  is  the  most  fearful 
man's  nature  can  endure.  The  fickleness  of  chance,  the  way- 
wardness of  fortune,  fill  his  mind  with  doubts  and  hesitations. 
Sceptical  on  the  sources  of  his  great  passion,  he  becomes  a 
doubter  on  every  subjed;  he  has  seen  his  confidence  so  often 
at  fault  that  he  trusts  nothing,  and  at  last  the  ruling  feature  of 
his  character  is  suspicion.  When  this  rules  paramount,  he  is  a 
perfedt  gambler;  from  that  moment  he  has  done  with  the  world 
and  all  its  pleasures  and  pursuits;  life  offers  to  him  no  path  of 
ambition,  no  goal  to  stimulate  his  energies.  With  a  mock 
stoicism  he  affedts  to  be  superior  to  the  race  which  other  men 
are  running,  and  laughs  at  the  collisions  of  party  and  the  con- 
tests of  politics.  Society,  art,  literature,  love  itself,  have  no 
attractions  for  him    then;  all   excitements   are   feeble   compared 

.56 


« 


BOOK-SHELF 


with  the  alternations  of  the  gaming-table;  and  the  chances  of 
fortune  in  real  life  are  too  tame  and  too  tedious  for  the  impa- 
tience of  a  gambler.  Arthur  O'Leary. 

The  respectable  vagabonds  of  society  are  a  large  family, 
much  larger  than  is  usually  supposed.     They   are   often   well- 
born, almost  always   well  mannered,  invariably 
well  dressed.     They  do  not,  at  first  blush,  appear      „    .  ,  „ 

, .     ,  ^  '  r    ^},-  Social  Parasites. 

to  discharge  any  very  great  or  necessary  rundtion 
in  life;  but  we  must  by  no  means  from  that, 
infer  their  inutility.  Naturalists  tell  us  that  several  varieties  of 
inse(5l  existence  we  rashly  set  down  as  mere  annoyances  have 
their  peculiar  spheres  of  usefulness  and  good;  and  doubtless 
these  same  loungers  contribute  in  some  mysterious  manner  to 
the  welfare  of  that  state  which  they  only  seem  to  burden.  We 
are  told  that  but  for  flies,  for  instance,  we  should  be  infested  with 
myriads  of  winged  tormentors,  insinuating  themselves  into  our 
meat  and  drink,  and  rendering  life  miserable.  Is  there  not 
something  very  similar  performed  by  the  respectable  class  I 
allude  to?  Are  they  not  invariably  devouring  and  destroying 
some  vermin  a  little  smaller  than  themselves,  and  making  thus 
a  healthier  atmosphere  for  their  betters  ?  If  good  society  only 
knew  the  debt  it  owes  to  these  defenders  of  its  privileges,  a 
"Vagabond's  Home  and  Aged  Asylum"  would  speedily  figure 
amongst  our  national  charities. 

The  Fortunes  of  Glencore. 

As  in  the  dreariest  landscape  a  ray  of  sunlight  will  reveal 
some  beautiful  eff^eds,  making  the  eddies  of  the  dark  pool  to 
glitter,  lighting  up  the  russet  moss,  and  giving 
to  the  half- dried  lichen  a  tinge  of  bright  color.       The  Light  of 
so  will,  occasionally,  memory  throw  over  a  life        Other  Days. 
of  sorrow  a  gleam  of  happier  meaning. 

Faces  and  events,  forms  and  accents,  that  once  found  the 
way  to  our  hearts,  come  back  again,  faintly  and  imperfedtly  it 
may  be,  but  with  a  touch  that  revives  in  us  what  we  once  were. 

^S7 


MY      FAVORITE 


It  is  the  one  sole  feature  in  which  self-love  becomes  ami- 
able, when,  looking  back  on  our  past,  we  cherish  the  thought  of 
a  time  before  the  world  had  made  us  sceptical  and  hard-hearted. 

The  Fortunes  of  Glencore. 

Now  the  friendship  between  a  bygone  beauty  of  forty  — 
and  we  will   not  say   how  many  more  years — and  a  hackneyed, 
half-disgusted  man  of  the  world,  of  the  same  age. 
Birds  of  a         is  a  very  curious  contrast.     There  is  no  love  in 
Feather.  it;  as  little  is  there  any  strong  tie  of  esteem; 

but  there  is  a  wonderful  bond  of  self-interest 
and  mutual  convenience.  Each  seems  to  have  at  last  found 
"one  that  understands  him";  similarity  of  pursuit  has  engen- 
dered similarity  of  taste.  They  have  each  seen  the  world  from 
exadly  the  same  point  of  view,  and  they  have  come  out  of  it 
equally  heart-wearied  and  tired,  stored  with  vast  resources  of 
social  knowledge,  and  with  a  keen  insight  into  every  phase  of 
that  complex  machinery  by  which  one-half  the  world  cheats  the 
other.  The  Fotunes  of  Glencore. 

On  the  table  in  front  of  the  invalid  a  whole  regiment  of 
bottles,  of  varied  shape  and  color,  were  ranged,  the  contents 
being  curious  essences  and  delicate  odors,  every  one  of  which 
entered  into  some  peculiar  stage  of  that  elaborate  process  Sir 
Horace  Upton  went  through,  each  morning  of  his  life,  as  a 
preparation  for  the  toils  of  the  day. 

Adjoining    the    bed    stood   a   smaller   table,   covered   with 
various  medicaments,  tin6tures,  essences,  infusions  and  extracts, 
whose  subtle  qualities  he  was  well  skilled  in,  and 
The  but  for  whose   timely   assistance   he  would  not 

Hypochondriac.  have  believed  himself  capable  of  surviving 
throughout  the  day.  Beside  these  was  a  bulky 
file  of  prescriptions,  the  learned  documents  of  dodors  of  every 
country  of  Europe,  all  of  whom  had  enjoyed  their  little  sun- 
shine of  favor,  and  all  of  whom  had  ended  by  "mistaking  his 
case."    These  had  now  been  placed  in  readiness  for  the  approach- 

.58 


BOOK-SHELF 


ing  consultation  with  "  Glencore's   dodor";  and  the  valet  still 
glided  noiselessly  from  place  to  place,  preparing  for  that  event. 

"I'm  not  asleep,  Fritz,"  said  a  weak,  plaintive  voice  from 
the  bed;  "let  me  have  my  aconite, —  eighteen  drops;  a  full  dose 
to-day,  for  this  journey  has  brought  back  the  pains." 

"Yes,  Excellenz,"  said  Fritz,  in  a  voice  of  broken  accent- 
uation. 

"  I  slept  badly,"  continued  his  master,  in  the  same  com- 
plaining tone.  "The  sea  beat  so  heavily  against  the  rocks,  and 
the  eternal  plash,  plash,  all  night  irritated  and  worried  me.  Are 
you  giving  me  the  right  tincture?" 

"  Yes,  Excellenz,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"You  have  seen  the  dodor, —  what  is  he  like,  Fritz?" 

A  strange  grimace  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  were  the 
valet's  only  answer. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Upton,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
"  They  called  him  the  wild  growth  of  the  mountains  last  night, 
and  I  fancied  what  that  was  like  to  prove.     Is  he  young  ?  " 

A  shake  of  the  head  implied  not. 

"Nor  old?" 

Another  similar  movement  answered  the  question. 

"  Give  me  a  comb,  Fritz,  and  fetch  the  glass  here."  And 
now  Sir  Horace  arranged  his  silky  hair  more  becomingly,  and 
having  exchanged  one  or  two  smiles  with  his  image  in  the  mirror, 
lay  back  on  the  pillow,  saying,  "  Tell  him  I  am  ready  to  see 
him." 

Fritz   proceeded  to   the   door,  and  at  once  presented  the 
obsequious   figure   of  Billy   Traynor,  who,   having  heard  some 
details  of   the    rank    and    quality    of   his    new 
patient,  made  his  approaches  with  a  most  defer-       A  Celtic  Son 
ential  humility.    It  was  true,  Billy  knew  that  my  "f  Galen. 

Lord   Glencore's   rank    was   above   that  of   Sir 
Horace,  but  to  his  eyes  there  was  the  far  higher  distindion  of  a 
man  of  undoubted  ability, —  a  great  speaker,  a  great  writer,  a 
great  diplomatist;  and  Billy  Traynor,  for  the  first  time  in   his 
life,  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  one  whose  claims  to  dis- 


MY      FAVORITE 


tinc^^ion  stood  upon  the  lofty  basis  of  personal  superiority. 
Now,  though  bashfulness  was  not  the  chief  charafteristic  of  his 
nature,  he  really  felt  abashed  and  timid  as  he  drew  near  the  bed, 
and  shrank  under  the  quick  but  searching  glance  of  the  sick 
man's  cold  gray  eyes. 

"  Place  a  chair,  and  leave  us,  Fritz,"  said  Sir  Horace;  and 
then  turning  slowly  round,  smiled  as  he  said:  "I'm  happy  to 
make  vour  acquaintance,  sir.  My  friend,  Lord  Glencore,  has  told 
me  with  what  skill  you  treated  him,  and  I  embrace  the  fortunate 
occasion  to  profit  by  your  professional  ability." 

"I'm  your  humble  slave,  sir,"  said  Billy,  with  a  deep,  rich 
brogue;  and  the  manner  of  the  speaker,  and  his  accent,  seemed 
so  to  surprise  Upton  that  he  continued  to  stare  at  him  fixedly 
for  some  seconds  without  speaking. 

"You  studied  in  Scotland,  I  believe?"  said  he,  with  one 
of  the  most  engaging  smiles,  while  he  hazarded  the  question. 

"Indeed,  then,  I  did  not,  sir,"  said  Billy,  with  a  heavy 
sigh;  "all  I  know  of  the  ars  medicatrix  I  picked  up, —  currendo 
per  campos^ — as  one  may  say,  vagabondizing  through  life,  and 
watching  my  opportunities.  Nature  gave  me  the  Hippocratic 
turn,  and  I  did  my  best  to  improve  it." 

"So  that  you  never  took  out  a  regular  diploma?"  said  Sir 
Horace,  with  another  and  still  blander  smile. 

"  Sorra  one,  sir  !  I'm  a  dodor  just  as  a  man  is  a  poet, —  by 
sheer  janius !  'Tis  the  study  of  nature  makes  both  one  and  the 
other;  that  is,  when  there's  the  raal  stuff, —  th.t  divinus  afflatus^ — 
inside.  Without  you  have  that,  you're  only  a  rhymester  or 
a  quack." 

"  You  would,  then,  trace  a  parallel  between  them  ?"  said 
Upton,  graciously. 

"To  be  sure,  sir!  Ould  Heyric  says  that  the  poet  and  the 
phvsician  is   one : 

*« '  For  he  who  reads  the  clouded  skies. 

And  knows  the  utterings  of  the  deep. 
Can  surely  see  in  human  eyes 

The  sorrows  that  so  heart-locked  sleep.* 

i6o 


BOOK-SHELF 


The  human  system  is  just  a  kind  of  universe  of  its  own;  and 
the  very  same  faculties  that  investigate  the  laws  of  nature  in  one 
case  is  good  in  the  other." 

"  I  don't  think  the  author  of  '  King  Arthur'         Physk  and 
supports  your  theory,"  said  Upton,  gently.  Poetry. 

"  Blackmoor  was  an  ass;  but  maybe  he  was 
as  great   a   bosthoon   in   physic  as   in   poetry,"   rejoined    Billy, 
promptly. 

"Well,  Dodlor,"  said  Sir  Horace,  with  one  of  those  plaintive 
sighs  in  which  he  habitually  opened  the  narrative  of  his  own 
suffering,  "  let  us  descend  to  meaner  things  and  talk  of  myself. 
You  see  before  you  one  who,  in  some  degree,  is  the  reproach 
of  medicine.  That  file  of  prescriptions  beside  you  will  show 
you  that  I  have  consulted  almost  every  celebrity  in  Europe; 
and  that  I  have  done  so  unsuccessfully,  it  is  only  necessary  that 
you  should  look  on  these  worn  looks  —  these  wasted  fingers  — 
this  sickly,  feeble  frame.  Vouchsafe  me  a  patient  hearing  for 
a  few  moments,  while  I  give  you  some  insight  into  one  of 
the  most  intricate  cases,  perhaps,  that  has  ever  engaged  the 
faculty." 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  Sir  Horace  through  his 
statement,  which  in  reality  comprised  a  sketch  of  half  the  ills 
that  the  flesh  is  heir  to.  Maladies  of  heart,  brain,  liver,  lungs, 
the  nerves,  the  arteries,  even  the  bones,  contributed  their  aid  to 
swell  the  dreary  catalogue,  which,  indeed,  contained  the  usual 
contradidiions  and  exaggerations  incidental  to  such  histories. 
We  could  not  assuredly  expert  from  our  reader  the  patient  atten- 
tion with  which  Billy  listened  to  this  narrative. 

Never  by  a  word  did  he  interrupt  the  description;  not  even 
a  syllable  escaped  him  as  he  sat;  and  even  when  Sir  Horace 
had  finished  speaking,  he  remained  with  slightly  drooped  head 
and  clasped  hands  in  deep  meditation. 

"  It's  a  strange  thing,"  said  he,  at  last;  "but  the  more  I  see 
of  the  aristocracy,  the  more  I'm  convinced  that  they  ought  to 
have  doctors  for  themselves  alone,  just  as  they  have  their  own 
tailors  and  coachmakers, —  chaps  that  could  devote  themselves 

i6i 


MY     FAVORITE 


to  the  study  of  physic  for  the  peerage,  and  never  think  of  any 

other  disorders   but    them    that   befall   people   of  rank.      Your 

mistake,  Sir  Horace,  was  in  consulting  the  regular  middle-class 

practitioner,  who  invariably  imagined  there  must 

The  Aristocracy       ^^  ^  ^j^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^_ 

Ought  to  Have  r.  a      j  j  11 

Their  Our,  Doaors.  .  "And^you  set  me  down  as  a  hypochon- 
driac, then,"  said  Upton,  smiling. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  !  You  have  a  malady,  sure  enough, 
but  nothing  organic.  'Tis  the  oceans  of  tindtures,  the  sieves 
full  of  pills,  the  quarter-casks  of  bitters  you're  takin',  has  played 
the  divil  with  you.  The  human  machine  is  like  a  clock,  and  it 
depends  on  the  proportion  the  parts  bear  to  each  other,  whether 
it  keeps  time.  You  may  make  the  spring  too  strong,  or  the 
chain  too  thick,  or  the  balance  too  heavy  for  the  rest  of  the 
works,  and  spoil  everything  just  by  over-security.  That's  what 
your  dod:ors  was  doing  with  their  tonics  and  cordials.  They 
didn't  see,  here's  a  poor  washy  frame,  with  a  wake  circulation 
and  no  vigor.  If  we  nourish  him,  his  heart  will  go  quicker,  to 
be  sure;  but  what  will  his  brain  be  at?  There's  the  rub!  His 
brain  will  begin  to  go  fast,  too,  and  already  it's  going  the  pace. 
'Tis  soothin'  and  calmin'  you  want;  allaying  the  irritability  of 
an  irrascible,  fretful  nature,  always  on  the  watch  for  self-torment. 
Say-bathin',  early  hours,  a  quiet,  mopin'  kind  of  life,  that  would, 
maybe,  tend  to  torpor  and  sleepiness, —  them's  the  first  things 
you  need;  and  for  exercise  a  little  work  in  the  garden  that  you'd 
take  interest  in." 

"And  no  physic?"  asked  Sir  Horace. 

"  Sorra  screed!   not  as  much  as  a  powder  or  a  draught, — 

barrin',"   said  he,  suddenly  catching  the  altered  expression  of  the 

sick   man's  face,  "  a   little   mixture   of  hyoscy- 

xj   p,      ,        amus  I'll  compound  for  you  myself.     This,  and 

a  friction  over  the   region  of  the   heart,  with  a 

mild  embrocation,  is  all  my  tratement." 

"And  you  have  hopes  of  my  recovery  ?"  asked  Sir  Horace, 
faintly. 

"  My  name  isn't   Billy  Traynor  if  I'd  not  send  you  out  of 

162 


BOOK-SHELF 


this   hale  and   hearty  before  two   months.      1   read  you    like   a 
printed  book." 

"  You  really  give  me  great  confidence,  for  I  perceive  you 
understand  the  tone  of  my  temperament.  Let  us  try  this  same 
embrocation  at  once;  I'll  most  implicitly  obey  you  in  every- 
thing." 

"My  head  on  a  block,  then,  but  I'll  cure  you,"  said  Billy, 
who  determined  that  no  scruples  on  his  side  should  mar  the 
trust  reposed  in  him  by  the  patient.  "  But  you  must  give  your- 
self entirely  up  to  me;  not  only  as  to  your  eatin'  and  drinkin', 
but  your  hours  of  recreation  and  study,  exercise,  amusement, 
and  all,  must  be  at  my  biddin'.  It  is  the  principle  of  harmony 
between  the  moral  and  physical  nature  constitutes  the  whole 
sacret  of  my  system.  To  be  stimulatin'  the  nerves,  and  lavin' 
the  arteries  dormant,  is  like  playing  a  jig  to  minuet  time, —  all 
must  move  in  simultaneous  adiion;  and  the  cerebellum,  the 
great  flywheel  of  the  whole,  must  be  made  to  keep  orderly  time. 
D'ye  mind  ?" 

"  I  follow  you  with  great  interest,"  said  Sir  Horace,  to 
whose  subtle  nature  there  was  an  intense  pleasure  in  the  thought 
of  having  discovered  what  he  deemed  a  man  of  original  genius 
under  this  unpromising  exterior.  "  There  is  but  one  bar  to 
these  arrangements:  I  must  leave  this  at  once;  I  ought  to  go 
today.      I  must  be  off  tomorrow." 

"  Then  I  '11  not  take  the  helm  when  I  can't  pilot  you 
through  the  shoals,"  said  Billy.  "  To  begin  my  system,  and 
see  you  go  away  before  I  developed  my  grand  invigoratin'  arca- 
num, would  be  only  to  destroy  your  confidence  in  an  elegant 
discovery." 

"Were  I  only  as   certain  as  you  seem  to  be "  began 

Sir  Horace,  and  then  stopped. 

"  You'd  stay  and  be  cured,  you  were  goin'  to  say.  Well, 
if  you  didn't  feel  that  same  trust  in  me,  you'd  be  right  to  go; 
for  it  is  that  very  confidence  that  turns  the  balance.  Quid  Bab- 
bington  used  to  say  that  between  a  good  physician  and  a  bad 
one  there  was  just  the  difference  between  a  pound  and  a  guinea. 

163 


MY      FAVORITE 


1 


But  between  the  one  you  trust  and  the  one  you  don't,  there's 
all  the  way  between  Billy  Traynor  and  the  Bank  of  Ireland! " 

"  On  that  score  every  advantage  is  with  you," 

The  Difference      said  Upton,  with  all  the  winning  grace  of  his  in- 

Betxveen  DoSlors.     comparable  manner;  "and  I  must  now  bethink 

me  how  I  can  manage  to  prolong  my  stay  here." 

And  with  this  he  fell  into  a  musing  fit,  letting  drop  occasionally 

some  stray  word  or  two,  to  mark  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 

"The  Duke  of  Headwater's  on  the  thirteenth;  Ardroath 
Castle  the  Tuesday  after;  Morehampton  for  the  Derby  day. 
These  easily  disposed  of.  Prince  Boratinsky,  about  that  Warsaw 
affair,  must  be  attended  to;  a  letter,  yes,  a  letter,  will  keep 
that  question  open.  Lady  Grencliffe  is  a  difficulty;  if  I  plead 
illness,  she'll  say  I'm  not  strong  enough  to  go  to  Russia.  I'll 
think  it  over."  And  with  this  he  rested  his  head  on  his  hands, 
and  sank  into  profound  refle6lion.  "  Yes,  Doctor,"  said  he,  at 
length,  as  though  summing  up  his  secret  calculations,  "health  is 
the  first  requisite.  If  you  can  but  restore  me,  you  will  be — I 
am  above  the  mere  personal  consideration  —  you  will  be  the 
means  of  conferring  an  important  service  on  the  King's  govern- 
ment. A  variety  of  questions,  some  of  them  deep  and  intricate, 
are  now  pending,  of  which  I  alone  understand  the  secret  mean- 
ing. A  new  hand  would  infallibly  spoil  the  game;  and  yet,  in 
my  present  condition,  how  could  I  bear  the  fatigues  of  long 
interviews,  ministerial  deliberations,  incessant  note-writing,  and 
evasive  conversations?" 

"  Utterly  impossible!"  exclaimed  the  dodor. 

"  As  you  observe,  it  is  utterly  impossible,"  rejoined  Sir 
Horace,  with  one  of  his  own  dubious  smiles;  and  then,  in  a 
manner  more  natural,  resumed:  "We  public  men  have  the  sad 
necessity  of  concealing  the  sufferings  on  which  others  trade  for 
sympathy.  We  must  never  confess  to  an  ache  or  a  pain,  lest  it 
be  rumored  that  we  are  unequal  to  the  fatigues  of  office;  and  so 
is  it  that  we  are  condemned  to  run  the  race  with  broken  health, 
and  shattered  frame,  alleging  all  the  while  that  no  exertion  is  too 
much,  no  effort  too  great  for  us." 


164 


BOOK-SHELF 


"And  maybe,  after  all,  it's  that  very  struggle  that  makes 
you  more  than  common  men,"  said  Billy.     "  There's  a  kind  of 
irritability  that  keeps  the  brain  at  stretch,  and 
renders    it    equal    to    higher    efforts    than   ever    „       IT^r    >- 

^     ,  ■     1        1       t  1         T-»  •     •      (^reat  Men  for  Lon- 

accompany  good  everyday  health.     Dyspepsia  is     ^^^^^^  Sickness. 

the  soul  of  a  prose-writer,  and  a  slight  ossification 

of  the  aortic  valves  is  a  great  help  to  the  imagination." 

"Do  you  really  say  so?"  asked  Sir  Horace,  with  all  the 
implicit  confidence  with  which  he  accepted  any  marvel  that  had 
its  origin  in  medicine. 

"  Don't  you  feel  it  yourself,  sir?"  asked  Billy.     "  Do  you 
ever  pen  a  reply   to   a  knotty   state-paper  as   nately   as   when 
you've  the  heartburn  ?  are  you  ever  as  epigram- 
matic as  when  you're  driven  to  a  listen  slipper? —       „  "  igestion 

,,  ,•'  .  ..  .    .  ^  K  a  bpur  to  Literary 

and  when  do  you  give  a  minister  a  jobation  as        Composition. 
purtily  as  when  you  are  laborin'  under  a  slight 
indigestion  ?     Not  that  it  would  sarve  a  man  to  be  permanently 
in  gout  or  the  colic;  but  for  a  spurt  like  a  cavalry  charge,  there's 
nothing  like  eatin'  something  that  disagrees  with  you." 

"An  ingenious  notion,"  said  the  diplomatist,  smiling. 

"And  now  I'll  take  my  lave,"  said  Billy,  rising.  "I'm 
going  out  to  gather  some  mountain-colchicum  and  sorrel,  to 
make  a  diaphoretic  infusion ;  and  I've  got  to  give  Master 
Charles  his  Greek  lesson;  and  blister  the  colt, —  he's  thrown  out 
a  bone  spavin';  and,  after  that.  Handy  Carr's  daughter  has  the 
shakin'  ague,  and  the  smith  at  the  forge  is  to  be  bled  —  all  before 
two  o'clock,  when  '  the  lord  '  sends  for  me.  But  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  the  night  too,  I'm  your  honor's  obaydient." 

And  with  a  low  bow,  repeated  in  a  more  reverential  manner 
at  the  door,  Billy  took  his  leave  and  retired. 


.65 


MY      FAVORITE 


BULWER     LYTTON 


One  of  the  most  common,  yet,  when  considered,  one  of 
the  most  touching  characiteristics  of  receding  life,  is  in  its  finer 
perception   of  external    nature.     You  will   find 


„  -       men  who,  m   youth   and    middle  age,  seemmg 

Perceptions  of  ,        '  <         .  .,  .       D-'  o 

J  scarcely  to  notice  the  most  striking  reatures  or 

some  untamiliar  landscape,  become  minutely 
observant  of  the  rural  scenery  around  them  when  the  eye  has 
grown  dim  and  the  step  feeble.  They  will  deted:  more  quickly 
than  the  painter  the  delicate  variations  made  by  the  lapse  of  a 
single  day  in  the  tints  of  autumnal  foliage  —  they  will  distin- 
guish, among  the  reeds  by  the  river-side,  murmurs  that  escape 
the  dreamy  ear  of  the  poet.  Caxtoniana. 

The   London   sparrows,  no   doubt,  if  you  took  them  into 

the   forest  glens   of  Hampshire,  would  enjoy  the   change  very 

much ;  but  drop  the  thrush  and  linnet  of  Hamp- 

_  shire  into   St.    [ames's  Square,  and  they  would 

Sparrows.  ^     ,  •'  ,       ^  r»     i     r  i 

reel   very  uneasy  at  the   prospect   before  them. 

You  might  fill  all  the  balconies  round  with 
prettier  plants  than  thrush  and  linnet  ever  saw  in  the  New 
Forest,  but  they  would  not  be  thrush  and  linnet  if  they  built 
their  nests  in  such  coverts.  Caxtoniana. 

The  town  temperament  has  this  advantage  over  the  rural  — 

a  man   may  by  choice  fix  his  home  in  cities,  yet  have  the  most 

lively  enjoyment  of  the  country  when   he  visits 

^^'  ^lITT""     '^  ^°'"  recreation;  while  the  man  who,  by  choice, 

the  Great  City.      Settles  habitually  in  the  country,  there  deposits 

his  household  gods  and  there  moulds  his  habits 

of   thought   to   suit   the    life   he    has  selected,  usually  feels   an 

adtual   distress,  an   embarrassment,  a   pain,  when   from   time  to 

i66 


BOOK-SHELF 


time  he  drops  a  forlorn  stranger  on  the  London  pavement. 
He  cannot  readily  brace  his  mind  to  the  quick  exertions  for 
small  objeds  that  compose  the  activity  of  the  Londoner.  He 
has  no  interest  in  the  gossip  about  persons  he  does  not  know; 
the  very  weather  does  not  affe(^l  him  as  it  does  the  man  who  has 
no  crops  to  care  for.     When  the  Londoner  says,  "What  a  fine 

day!"  he  shakes  his  head  dolefully,  and  mutters,  "Sadly  in  want 

f»> 
ram. 

Nature  has  no  voice  that  wounds  the  self-love;  her  coldest 
wind  nips  no  credulous  affediion.     She  alone  has  the  same  face 
in  our  age  as  in  our  youth.     The  friend  with 
whom  we  once  took  sweet  counsel  we  have  left         Honesty  of 
in  the  crowd,  a  stranger — perhaps  a  foe!     The  Nature, 

woman,  in  whose  eyes,  some  twenty  years  ago, 
a  paradise  seemed  to  open  in  the  midst  of  a  fallen  world,  we 
passed  the  other  day  with  a  frigid  bow.  She  wore  rouge  and 
false  hair.  But  those  wild  flowers  under  the  hedgerow  —  those 
sparkles  in  the  happy  waters  —  no  friendship  has  gone  from 
them!  their  beauty  has  no  simulated  freshness  —  their  smile  has 
no  fraudulent  deceit.  Caxtoniana. 

In   connexion  with  this  spiritual   process,  it  is  noticeable 

how  intuitively  in  age  we  go  back  with  strange  fondness  to  all 

that  is  fresh  in  the  earliest  dawn  of  youth.      If 

we   never   cared    for   little    children    before,  we         „  f^f    . 
J    1-    I  1  11-1  1-1  uelt^nts  tn 

delight  to  see  them  roll  m  the  grass  over  which     Youthful  Scenes. 

we   hobble   on   crutches.     The   grandsire  turns 

wearily  from  his  middle-aged  care-worn  son  to  listen  with  infant 

laugh  to  the  prattle  of  an  infant  grandchild.      It  is  the  old  who 

plant  young  trees;  it  is  the  old  who  are  most  saddened  by  the 

autumn  and  feel  most  delight  in  the  returning  spring. 

Caxtoniana. 

It  is  amusing  to  read  the  ingenious  hypotheses  framed  by 
critics  who   were   not   themselves    poets,  in    order  to    trace    in 


67 


MY      FAVORITE 


Shakespeare's  writings  the  footprints  of  his  bodily  life.  I  have 
seen  it  inferred  as  proof  positive,  from  the  description  of  the 

samphire-gatherer,  that  Shakespeare  must  have 

The  Clairvoyance    stood  on  the  cliffs  of  Dover.      I   have  followed 

of  Genius.         the  indudions  of  an  argument  intended  to  show, 

from  the  fidelity  of  his  colourings  of  Italian 
scenery,  that  Shakespeare  must  have  travelled  into  Italy. 
His  use  of  legal  technicalities  has  been  cited  as  a  satisfactory 
evidence  that  he  had  been  an  attorney's  clerk;  his  nice  percep- 
tion of  morbid  anatomy  has  enrolled  him  among  the  sons  of 
i^sculapius  as  a  medical  student;  and  from  his  general  tendency 
to  philosophical  speculation  it  has  been  seriously  maintained 
that  Shakespeare  was  not  Shakespeare  at  all.  So  fine  a  philoso- 
pher could  not  have  been  a  vagabond  stage  player;  he  must 
have  been  the  prince  of  professed  philosophers  —  the  Lord 
Chancellor  of  Nature — Bacon  himself,  and  no  other.  But  does 
it  not  occur  to  such  discriminating  observers,  that  Shakespeare's 
knowledge  is  no  less  accurate  when  applied  to  forms  of  life  and 
periods  of  the  world,  into  which  his  personal  experience  could 
not  possibly  have  given  him  an  insight,  than  it  was  when  applied 
to  the  description  of  Dover  cliff,  or  couched  in  a  metaphor  bor- 
rowed from  the  law  courts?  Possibly  he  might  have  seen  with 
his  own  bodily  eyes  the  samphire-gatherer  hanging  between 
earth  and  sky;  but  with  his  own  bodily  eyes  had  he  seen  Brutus 
in  his  tent  on  the  fatal  eve  of  Philippi?  Possibly  he  might 
have  scrawled  out  a  deed  of  conveyance  to  John  Doe;  but  had 
he  any  hand  in  Caesar's  will,  or  was  he  consulted  by  Mark 
Antony  as  to  the  forensic  use  to  which  that  will  could  be  applied 
in  obtaining  from  a  Roman  jury  a  verdidt  against  the  liberties 
of  Rome?  To  account  for  Shakespeare's  lucidity  in  things 
done  on  earth  before  Dover  Cliff  had  been  seen  by  the  earliest 
Saxon  immigrant,  there  is  but  one  supposition  agreeable  to  the 
theory  that  Shakespeare  must  have  seen  Dover  Cliff  with  his 
own  bodily  eyes  because  he  describes  it  so  well:  Shakespeare 
must  have  been,  not  Lord  Bacon,  but  Pythagoras,  who  lived  as 
Kuphorbus    in    the    times  of   the  Trojan   war,  and  who,  under 


l68 


BOOK-SHELF 


some  name  or  other  (why  not  in  that  of  Shakespeare?)  might 
therefore  have  been  Hving  in  the  reign  of  EHzabeth,  linking  in 
one  individual  memory  the  annals  of  perished  states  and  extin- 
guished races. 

But  then  it  may  be  said  that  "Shakespeare  is  an  exception 
to  all  normal  mortality ;  no  rule  applicable  to  inferior  genius  can 
be  drawn  from  the  specialty  of  that  enigmatical  monster." 

This  assertion  would  not  be  corredl.  Shakespeare  is  indeed 
the  peerless  prince  of  clairvoyants  — "  Nee  viget  quidquam 
simile  aut  secundum."  But  the  scale  of  honour  descends  down- 
ward, and  down,  not  only  through  the  Dii  Majores  of  Genius, 
but  to  many  an  earthborn  Curius  and  Camillus. 

The  gift  of  seeing  through  other  organs  than  the  eyes  is 
more  or  less  accurately  shared  by  all  in  whom  imagination  is 
strongly  concentered  upon  any  selected  objedt, 
however  distant  and  apart  from  the  positive  The  Clairvoyance 
experience  of  material  senses.  Certainly  if  there  °f  Genius. 
were  any  creature  in  the  world  whom  a  quiet, 
prim,  respectable  printer  could  never  have  come  across  in  the 
flesh  and  the  blood,  it  would  be  a  daring  magnificent  libertine — 
a  roue  of  fashion  the  most  exquisitely  urbane  —  a  prodigal  of 
wit  the  most  riotously  lavish.  It  was  only  through  clairvoyance 
that  a  Richardson  could  ever  have  beheld  a  Lovelace.  But 
Richardson  does  not  only  behold  Lovelace,  he  analyses  and  dis- 
sedls  him  —  minutes  every  impulse  in  that  lawless  heart,  unravels 
every  web  in  that  wily  brain.  The  refiners  on  Shakespeare  who 
would  interpret  his  life  from  his  writings,  and  reduce  his  clair- 
voyance into  commonplace  reminiscence,  would,  by  the  same 
process  of  logic,  prove  Richardson  to  have  been  the  confidential 
valet  of  Wilmot  Lord  Rochester;  or,  at  least  in  some  time  of 
his  life,  to  have  been  a  knavish  attorney  in  the  Old  Bailey  of 
love.  Nothing  is  more  frequent  among  novelists,  even  third- 
rate  and  fourth-rate,  than  "to  see  through  other  organs  than 
their  eyes."  Clairvoyance  is  the  badge  of  all  their  tribe.  They 
can  describe  scenes  they  have  never  witnessed  more  faithfully 
than  the  native  who  has  lived  amid  those  scenes  from  his  cradle. 

169 


MY      FAVORITE 


Not  unfrequently  we  find  the  world  according  high  position 
to   some   man  in  whom  we  recognize  no  merits  commensurate 
with  that  superiority  which  we  are  called  upon 
The  Mastery  of     to  confess;    no  just  claims  to  unwonted  defer- 
Mediocrity.        ence,  whether  in  majestic  genius  or  heroic  virtue; 
no  titles  even  to  that  conventional  homage  which 
civilized  societies  have  agreed  to  render  to  patrician  ancestry  or 
to  plebeian  wealth.     The  moral  chara6ter,  the  mental  attributes, 
of  this  Superior  Man,  adorned  by  no  pomp  of  heraldic  blazonry, 
no   profusion  of  costly  gilding,  seem   to  us   passably  mediocre; 
yet   mediocrity,  so  wont  to  be  envious,  acknowledges  his  emi- 
nence, and  sets  him  up  as  an  authority.     He  is  considered  more 
safe  than  genius;  more  prad:ical  than  virtue. 

Princes,  orators,  authors,  yield  to  his  mysterious  ascend- 
ancy. He  imposes  himself  on  gods  and  men,  quiet  and  inex- 
orable as  the  Necessity  of  the  Greek  poets.  Why  or  wherefore 
the  Olympians  should  take  for  granted  his  right  to  the  place  he 
assumes,  we  know  not,  we  humbler  mortals;  but  we  yield,  where 
they  yield, —  idle  to  contend  against  Necessity. 

Yet  there  is  a  cause  for  every  effed:;  and  a  cause  there 
must  be  for  the  superiority  of  this  Superior  Man,  in  whom 
there  is  nothing  astonishing  except  his  success. 

Caxtoniana. 

Easy  to   keep   out   of  debt!     Certainly  not.      Nothing  in 

life  worth    an  effort  is  easy.      Do  you  exped  to   know  the  first 

six  books  of  Euclid  by  inspiration?      Whatever 

The  Difficulty       ^^  culture  on  earth,  till  we  win    back  our  way 

of  Keeping  Out      •  T^  11  .       c 

of  Debt  ^^^^   Eden,  we  must  earn   by  the  sweat  or   our 

brow  or  the  sweat  of  our  brain.  Not  even  the 
Sybarite  was  at  ease  on  his  rosebed  —  even  for  him  some  labour 
was  needful.  No  hand  save  his  own  could  uncrumple  the  rose- 
leaf  that  chafed  him.  Each  objedt  under  the  sun  refleds  a  diffi- 
culty on  the  earth.  "  Every  hair,"  says  that  exquisite  Publius 
Syrus,  whose  fragments  of  old  verse  are  worth  libraries  of 
modern  comedies — "every  hair  casts  its  shadow." 

I  70 


BOOK-SHELF 


But  think,  O   young  man !    of  the   obje6t    I   place  before 
you,  and  then  be  ashamed  of  yourself  if  you  still  sigh,  "Easy  to 
preach,  and  not  easy  to  pradise."     I  have  no  in- 
terest  in  the  preaching;  your  interest  is  immense      ^   '     '■r'^"^ 
in    the    practise.     That    obje(^l    not   won,   your  of  Debt. 

heart  has  no  peace,  and  your  hearth  no  security. 
Your  conscience  itself  leaves  a  door  open  night  and  day  to  the 
tempter;  —  night  and  day,  to  the  ear  of  a  debtor,  steal  whispers 
that  prompt  to  the  deeds  of  a  felon.  Three  years  ago  you 
admired  the  rising  success  of  some  —  most  respectable  man. 
Where  is  he  now?  In  the  dock,  in  the  jail,  in  the  hulks? 
What!  that  opulent  banker,  whose  plate  dazzled  princes!  or 
that  flourishing  clerk,  who  drove  the  high-stepping  horse  to  his 
office?  The  same.  And  his  crime?  Fraud  and  swindling. 
What  demon  could  urge  so  respedlable  a  man  to  so  shameful  an 
adt?  I  know  not  the  name  of  the  demon,  but  the  cause  of  the 
crime  the  wretch  tells  you  himself.  Ask  him :  what  is  his 
answer?  "  I  got  into  debt, —  no  way  to  get  out  of  it  but  the 
way  which  I  took — to  the  dock,  to  the  jail,  to  the  hulks  !" 

Easy  to  keep  out  of  debt !  No,  my  young  friend,  it  is 
difficult.  Are  you  rich  ?  The  bland  tradesman  cries,  "  Pay  when 
you  please."  Your  rents  or  your  father's  allowance  will  not  be 
due  for  three  months ;  your  purse,  in  the  meanwhile,  cannot 
afford  you  some  pleasant  vice  or  some  innocent  luxury,  which 
to  young  heirs  seems  a  want;  you  are  about  to  relinquish  the 
vice  or  dispense  with  the  luxury;  a  charming  acquaintance,  who 
lives  no  one  knows  how,  though  no  one  lives  better,  introduces 
an  amiable  creature,  sleek  as  a  cat,  with  paws  of  velvet  hiding 
claws  of  steel;  his  manners  are  pleasing,  his  calling — usury.  You 
want  the  money  for  three  months.  Why  say  three?  Your 
name  to  a  bill  for  six  months,  and  the  vice  or  the  luxury  is  yours 
the  next  hour!  Certainly  the  easy  thing  here  is  to  put  your 
name  to  the  bill.  Presto!  you  are  in  debt — the  demon  has  you 
down  in  his  books.  Are  you  poor?  Still  your  charafter  is  yet 
without  stain  —  and  your  character  is  a  property  on  which  you 
can  borrow  a  trifle.      But  when  you   borrow  on  your  charader, 


^7 


MY      FAVORITE 


it  is  your  charad:er  that  you  leave  in  pawn.  The  property  to 
you  is  priceless,  and  the  loan  that  subjedls  it  to  be  a  pledge 
unredeemed  is  —  a  trifle.  Caxtoniana. 

The  man  who  succeeds  above  his  fellows  is  the  one  who, 
early  in  life,  clearly  discerns  his  objed:,  and  towards  that  object 
habitually  diredls  his  powers.    Thus,  indeed,  even 
^    .  genius  itself  is  but  fine  observation  strengthened 

by  fixity  of  purpose.     Every  man  who  observes 
vigilantly  and  resolves  steadfastly  grows  uncon- 
sciously into  genius.  Caxtoniana. 

Keep  to  the  calling  that  assures  you  a  something  out  of 
which  you  may  extra(i:t  independence  —  until  you  are  independ- 
ent.    Give  to  that  calling  all  your  heart,  all  your 
,  mind.     If   I  were  hatter,  or  tailor,  or  butcher, 

or  baker,  I  should  resolve  to  consider  my  call- 
ing the  best  in  the  world,  and  devote  to  it  the 
best  of  my  powers.     Independence  once  won,  then  be  Byron  or 
Scott  if  you  can. 

Independence!  Independence!  the  right  and  the  power  to 
follow  the  bent  of  your  genius  without  fear  of  the  bailiff  and 
dun  should  be  your  first  inflexible  aim.  To  attain  independence, 
so  apportion  your  expenditure  as  to  spend  less  than  you  have  or 
you  earn.  Make  this  rule  imperative.  I  know  of  none  better. 
Lay  by  something  every  year,  if  it  be  but  a  shilling.  A  shilling 
laid  by,  net  and  clear  from  a  debt,  is  a  receipt  in  full  for  all  claims 
in  the  past,  and  you  go  on  with  light  foot  and  light  heart  to  the 
future.  "  H  ow  am  I  to  save  and  lay  by  ? "  saith  the  author,  or  any 
other  man  of  wants  more  large  than  his  means.  The  answer  is 
obvious  —  "  If  you  cannot  increase  your  means,  then  you  must 
diminish  your  wants."  Every  skilled  labourer  of  fair  repute  can 
earn  enough  not  to  starve,  and  a  surplus  beyond  that  bare  suffi- 
ciency. Yet  many  a  skilled  labourer  suffers  more  from  positive 
privation  than  the  unskilled  rural  peasant.  Why?  Because  he 
encourages  wants  in  excess  of  his  means.  Caxtoniana. 

172 


BOOK-SHELF 


Whatever  you  lend,  let  it  be  your  money,  and  not  your 
name.  Money  you  may  get  again,  and,  if  not,  you  may  con- 
trive to  do  without  it;  name  once  lost  you  cannot  get  again, 
and,  if  you  can  contrive  to  do  without  it,  you  had  better  never 
have  been  born.  Caxtoniana. 

Mark  the  emphatic  distinction  between  poverty  and  needi- 
ness.     Poverty  is  relative,  and   therefore  not  ignoble ;  neediness 
is  a  positive  degradation.     If  I  have  only  ^^loo 
a  year,  I   am  rich  as  compared  with  the  majority  Relative 

of  my  countrymen.      If  1  have  ^^5,000  a   year.  Affluence. 

I  may  be  poor  compared  with  the  majority  of 
my  associates;  and  very  poor  compared  to  my  next  door 
neighbour.  With  either  of  these  incomes  I  am  relatively  poor 
or  rich;  but  with  either  of  these  incomes  I  may  be  positively 
needy,  or  positively  free  from  neediness.  With  the  ^^loo  a 
year  I  may  need  no  man's  help;  I  may  at  least  have  "my  crust 
of  bread  and  liberty."  But  with  ^^5,000  a  year  I  may  dread 
a  ring  at  my  bell;  I  may  have  my  tyrannical  masters  in  servants 
whose  wages  I  cannot  pay;  my  exile  may  be  at  the  fiat  of  the 
first  long-suffering  man  who  enters  a  judgment  against  me;  for 
the  flesh  that  lies  nearest  to  my  heart  some  Shylock  may  be 
dusting  his  scales  and  whetting  his  knife.  Nor  is  this  an  exag- 
geration. Some  of  the  neediest  men  I  ever  knew  have  a  nom- 
inal ^5,000  a  year.  Every  man  is  needy  who  spends  more  than 
he  has;  no  man  is  needy  who  spends  less.  I  may  so  ill  manage 
my  money  that,  with  ^5,000  a  year,  I  purchase  the  worst  evils 
of  poverty  —  terror  and  shame;  I  may  so  well  manage  my 
money  that,  with  ^100  a  year,  I  purchase  the  best  blessings  of 
wealth  —  safety  and  resped;.  Man  is  a  kingly  animal.  In 
every  state  which  does  not  enslave  him,  it  is  not  labour  which 
makes  himjlessjroyally  lord  of  himself — it  is  fear. 

Caxtoniana. 

How  helpless  is  an  old  man  who  has  not  a  farthing  to  give 
or  to  leave!     But  be  moderately  amiable,  grateful  and  kind,  and. 


MY      FAVORITE 


though  you  have  neither  wife  nor  child,  you  will  never  want  a 
wife's  tenderness  nor  a  child's  obedience  if  you  have  something 
to  leave  or  give.     This  reads  like  satire;  it  is  sober  truth. 

Caxtoniana. 

Talk  of  the  power  of  knowledge!  What  can  knowledge 
invent  that  money  cannot  purchase?      Money,  it  is  true,  cannot 

give  you  the  brain  of  the  philosopher,  the  eye  of 

The  Power  of      the   painter,  the   ear  of  the   musician,  nor  that 

Money.  inner  sixth  sense  of  beauty  and  truth  by  which 

the  poet  unites  in  himself,  philosopher,  painter, 
musician;  but  money  can  refine  and  exalt  your  existence  with  all 
that  philosopher,  painter,  musician,  poet,  accomplish.  That 
which  they  are  your  wealth  cannot  make  you;  but  that  which 
they  do  is  at  the  command  of  your  wealth.  You  may  colled: 
in  your  libraries  all  thoughts  which  all  thinkers  have  confided  to 
books;  your  galleries  may  teem  with  the  treasures  of  art;  the 
air  that  you  breathe  may  be  vocal  with  music;  better  than  all 
when  you  summon  the  graces  they  can  come  to  your  call  in  their 
sweet  name  of  Charities.  You  can  build  up  asylums  for  age, 
and  academies  for  youth.  Pining  Merit  may  spring  to  hope  at 
your  voice,  and  "  Poverty  grow  cheerful  in  your  sight."  Money 
well  managed  deserves  indeed  the  apotheosis  to  which  she  was 
raised  by   her   Latin  adorers;  she  is  Diva  Moneta — a  Goddess. 

Caxtoniana. 

It  is  a  great  motive  to  economy,  a  strong  safeguard  to  con- 
du(5l,  and  a  wonderful  stimulant  to  all  mental  power,  if  you  can 
associate  your  toil  for  money  with  some  end  dear  to  your 
affedtions.  Caxtoniana. 

Better  to  have  one  first-rate  pi6ture  in  a  modest  drawing- 
room  than  fifty  daubs  in  a  pompous  gallery.  Better  to  have 
one  handsome  horse  in  a  brougham  than  four  screws  in  a  drag. 
Better  to  give  one  pleasant  tea-party  than  a  dozen  detestable 
dinners.  Caxtoniana. 

^74 


BOOK-SHELF 


A  man  of  very  moderate  means  can  generally  afford  one 
cfFed:  meant  for  show,  as  a  requisite  of  station,  which,  of  its 
kind,  may   not   be  surpassed   by  a  millionaire. 
Those  who  set  the  fashions  in  London  are  never        ^    ,  rr 
the  richest  people,     (jood  taste  is  intuitive  with 
some  persons,  but  it  may  be  acquired  by  all  who 
are  observant.     In  matters  of  show,  good  taste  is  the  elementary 
necessity;    after   good   taste,   concentration   of  purpose.     With 
money  as  with  genius,  the  wise  master  of  his  art  says,  "There 
is  one  thing  I  can  do  well;  that  one  thing  I  will  do  as  well  as  I 
can."     Money,  like  genius,  is  effective  in  proportion  as  it  is 
brought  to  bear  on  one  thing  at  a  time.      Money,  like  genius, 
may  comprehend  success  in   a  hundred   things  —  but  still,  as  a 
rule,  one  thing  at  a  time;  that  thing  must  be  completed  or  relin- 
quished before  you  turn  to  another. 

Mere  dandies  are  but  cut  flowers  in  a  bouquet — once  faded 
they  can  never  reblossom.  In  the  drawing-room,  as  everywhere 
else.  Mind  in  the  long  run   prevails.     And  O 

well-booted   Achaian !   for  all   those   substantial      ^.      .    , , 

J      ,  .  ,  .   ,  ,,  ,  Time  15  Money. 

good  things  which  money  well  managed  com- 
mands, and  which,  year  after  year  as  you  advance 
in  life,  you  will  covet  and  sigh  for, —  yon  sloven,  thick-shoed 
and  with  cravat  awry,  whose  mind,  as  he  hurries  by  the  bow- 
window  at  White's,  sows  each  fleeting  moment  with  thoughts 
which  grow  not  blossoms  for  bouquets  but  corn-sheaves  for 
garners  —  will,  before  he  is  forty,  be  far  more  the  fashion  than 
you.  He  is  commanding  the  time  out  of  which  you  are  fading. 
And  time,  O  my  friend,  is  money!  time  wasted  can  never  con- 
duce to  money  well  managed.  Caxtoniana. 

Repose  is  not  always  possible.  The  patient  cannot  stop  in 
the  midst  of  his  career  —  in  the  thick  of  his  schemes.  Or, 
supposing  that  he  rush  ofi^  to  snatch  a  nominal  holiday  from 
toil,  he  cannot  leave  Thought  behind  him.  Thought,  like  Care, 
mounts  the  steed  and  climbs  the  bark. 

^7S 


MY     FAVORITE 


A  brain  habitually  aftive  will  not  be  ordered  to  rest.      It  is 
not  like  the  inanimate  glebe  of  a  farm,  which,  when  exhausted, 
you  restore  by   the  simple  precept,  "  Let  it  lie 
The  Ever-Bus\      fallow."     A   mind  once   cultivated  will  not  lie 
Brain.  fallow   for   half  an  hour.      If  a  patient,  habitu- 

ated to  reflection,  has  nothing  else  to  meditate, 
his  intelled  and  fancy  will  muse  exclusively  over  his  own  ail- 
ments;—  muse  over  a  finger-ache,  and  engender  a  gangrene. 
What,  then,  should  be  done?  Change  the  occupation,  vary  the 
culture,  call  new  organs  into  play;  restore  the  equilibrium 
deranged  in  overweighting  one  scale  by  weights  thrown  into 
another. 

To  sail   round  the  world,  you   must  put  in  at  many   har- 
bours, if  not  for  rest,  at  least  for  supplies. 

We  are  not  sent  here  to  do  merely  some  one  thing,  which 

we  can  scarcely  suppose  that  we  shall   be  required  to  do  again, 

when,  crossing   the   Styx,  we   find   ourselves   in 

f^ry  eternity.     Whether  I  am  a  painter,  a  sculptor,  a 

Trade.  poet,  a  romance-writer,  an  essayist,  a   politician, 

a  lawyer,  a  merchant,  a  hatter,  a  tailor,  a  me- 
chanic at  factory  or  loom,  it  is  certainly  much  for  me  in  this 
life  to  do  the  thing  I  profess  to  do  as  well  as  I  can.  But  when 
I  have  done  that,  and  that  thing  alone,  nothing  more,  where  is  my 
profit  in  the  life  to  come?  I  do  not  believe  that  I  shall  be  asked 
to  paint  pictures,  carve  statues,  write  odes,  trade  at  Exchange, 
make  hats  or  coats,  or  manufacture  pins  and  cotton  prints,  when 
I  am  in  the  Kmpyrean.  Whether  I  be  the  grandest  genius  on 
earth  in  a  single  thing,  and  that  single  thing  earthy  —  or  the 
poor  peasant  who,  behind  his  plough,  whistles  for  want  of 
thought, —  I  strongly  suspeCt  it  will  be  all  one  when  I  pass  to 
the  Competitive  Examination  —  yonder!  On  the  other  side  of 
the  grave  a  Raffaelle's  occupation  may  be  gone  as  well  as  a 
ploughman's.  This  world  is  a  school  for  the  education  not  of  a 
faculty,  but  of  a  man.     Just  as  in  the  body,  if  I  resolve  to  be  a 

176 


BOOK-SHELF 


rower,  and  only  a  rower,  the  chances  are  that  I  shall  have, 
indeed,  strong  arms,  but  weak  legs,  and  be  stricken  with  blind- 
ness from  the  glare  of  the  water;  so  in  the  mind,  if  I  care  but 
for  one  exercise,  and  do  not  consult  the  health  of  the  mind  alto- 
gether, I  may,  like  George  Morland,  be  a  wonderful  painter  of 
pigs  and  pig-sties,  but  in  all  else,  as  a  human  being,  be  below 
contempt  —  an  ignoramus  and  a  drunkard!  We  men  are  not 
fragments  —  we  are  wholes;  we  are  not  types  of  single  quali- 
ties—  we  are  realities  of  mixed,  various,  countless  combinations. 

In  fine,  whatever  the  calling,  let  men   only   cultivate  that 
calling,  and  they  are  as  narrow-minded  as  the  Chinese  when  they 
place   on   the  map  of   the   world  the   Celestial 
Empire,   with    all   its    Tartaric    villages   in   full  Stultified 

detail,  and  out  of  that  limit  make  dots  and  lines.         Singleness. 
with    the    superscription,     "  Deserts    unknown, 
inhabited  by  barbarians!" 

Every  man  of  sound  brain  whom  you  meet  knows  some- 
thing worth  knowing  better  than  yourself. 

It  is  a  wondrous  advantage  to  a  man,  in  every  pursuit  or 
avocation,  to  secure  an  adviser  in  a  sensible  woman.      In  woman 
there  is  at  once  a  subtle  delicacy  of  ta6t,  and  a 
plain  soundness  of  judgment,  which   are  rarely  A  Female 

combined  to  an  equal  degree  in  man.     A  woman.  Mentor. 

if  she  be  really  your  friend,  will  have  a  sensitive 
regard  for  your  character,  honour,  repute.  She  will  seldom 
counsel  you  to  do  a  shabby  thing,  for  a  woman-friend  always 
desires  to  be  proud  of  you.  At  the  same  time,  her  constitu- 
tional timidity  makes  her  more  cautious  than  your  male  friend. 
She,  therefore,  seldom  counsels  you  to  do  an  imprudent  thing. 
By  female  friendships  I  mean  pure  friendships  —  those  in  which 
there  is  no  admixture  of  the  passion  of  love,  except  in  the  mar- 
ried state.  A  man's  best  female  friend  is  a  wife  of  good  sense 
and  good  heart,  whom  he  loves,  and  who  loves  him.     If  he  have 

177 


MY      FAVORITE 


that,  he  need  not  seek  elsewhere.  But  supposing  the  man  to  be 
without  such  a  helpmate,  female  friendships  he  must  still  have, 
or  his  intellect  will  be  without  a  garden,  and  there  will  be  many 
an  unheeded  gap  even  in  its  strongest  fence.  Better  and  safer, 
ot  course,  such  friendships  where  disparities  of  years  or  circum- 
stances put  the  idea  of  love  out  of  the  question.  Middle  life 
has  rarely  this  advantage;  youth  and  old  age  have.  We  may 
have  female  friendships  with  those  much  older,  and  those  much 
younger  than  ourselves.  Moliere's  old  housekeeper  was  a  great 
help  to  his  genius;  and  Montaigne's  philosophy  takes  both  a 
gentler  and  a  loftier  character  of  wisdom  from  the  date  in  which 
he  finds,  in  Marie  de  Gournay,  an  adopted  daughter,  "certainly 
beloved  by  me,"  says  the  Horace  of  essayists,  "with  more  than 
paternal  love,  and  involved  in  my  solitude  and  retirement,  as 
one  of  the  best  parts  of  my  being."  Female  friendship,  indeed, 
is  to  man  '•'■pr^esidium  et  dulce  decus'' — the  bulwark  and  sweet 
ornament  of  his  existence.  To  his  mental  culture  it  is  invalu- 
able; without  it  all  his  knowledge  of  books  will  never  give  him 
knowledge  of  the  world. 

Chance   happens  to  all,  but  to  turn  chance  to  account  is 
the  gift  of  few. 

Cures  that  baffle  science  are  effefted  by  imagination.     The 
best  education  is  that  which  wakes  up  the  mind  to  educate  itself. 

Caxtoniana. 

All    men  who  do  something   tolerably  well,  do   it  better  if 
their  energies  are  cheered  on.     And  if  they  are  doing  something 
for    you,    your  praise  brings    you   back  a  very 
The  Power  of      good  interest.     Some  men,  indeed,  can  do  noth- 
Praise.  jng   good   without  being  braced   by  encourage- 

ment—  it  is  true,  that  is  a  vanity  in  them.  But 
we  must  be  very  vain  ourselves  if  the  vanity  of  another  seriously 
irritates  our  own.  l^he  humours  of  men  are,  after  all,  subjects 
more  of  comedy  than  of  solemn  rebuke.     And  vanity  is  a  very 

.78 


BOOK-SHELF 


useful  humour  on  the  stage  of  life.  It  was  the  habit  of  Sir 
Godfrey  Kneller  to  say  to  his  sitter,  "  Praise  me,  sir,  praise  me : 
how  can  I  throw  any  animation  into  your  face  if  you  don't 
choose  to  animate  me?"  And  laughable  as  the  painter's  desire 
for  approbation  might  be,  so  bluntly  expressed,  I  have  no  doubt 
that  the  sitter  who  took  the  hint  got  a  much  better  portrait  for 
his  pains.  Every  ad:or  knows  how  a  cold  house  chills  him, 
and  how  necessary  to  the  full  sustainment  of  a  great  part  is  the 
thunder  of  applause.  I  have  heard  that  when  the  late  Mr. 
Kean  was  performing  in  some  city  of  the  United  States,  he 
came  to  the  manager  at  the  end  of  the  third  ad:  and  said,  "  I 
can't  go  on  the  stage  again,  sir,  if  the  Pit  keeps  its  hands  in  its 
pockets.  Such  an  audience  would  extinguish  iEtna."  And  the 
story  saith  that  the  manager  made  his  appearance  on  the  stage, 
and  assured  the  audience  that  Mr.  Kean,  having  been  accus- 
tomed to  audiences  more  demonstrative  than  was  habitual  to  the 
severer  intelligence  of  an  assembly  of  American  citizens,  mistook 
their  silent  attention  for  disapprobation;  and,  in  short,  that  if 
they  did  not  applaud  as  Mr.  Kean  had  been  accustomed  to  be 
applauded,  they  could  not  have  the  gratification  of  seeing  Mr. 
Kean  a6t  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  ad:.  Of  course  the 
audience  —  though,  no  doubt,  with  an  elated  sneer  at  the 
Britisher's  vanity — were  too  much  interested  in  giving  him  fair 
play  to  withhold  any  longer  the  loud  demonstration  of  their 
pleasure  when  he  did  something  to  please  them.  As  the  fervour 
of  the  audience  rose,  so  rose  the  genius  of  the  a6tor,  and  the 
contagion  of  their  own  applause  redoubled  their  enjoyment  of 
the  excellence  it  contributed  to  create. 

A  hasty  temper  is  an  infirmity  disagreeable  to  others,  undig- 
nified in  ourselves  —  a  fault  so  well  known  to  every  man  who 
has  it,  that  he  will  at  once  acknowledge  it  to  be  a  fault  which  he 
ought  to  corred:. 

In  social  intercourse,  if  his  charader  be  generous  and  his 
heart  sound,  a  man  does  not  often  lose  a  true  friend  from  a 
quick  word. 

179 


MY      FAVORITE 


Richelieu   did   not  command   his   temper  in   the  sphere  of 

his   private   household :    he  commanded  it   to  perfedion  in  his 

^  administration  of  a  kingdom.     The  life  of  no 

"^D  a"  ^         subjed,  and  the  success  of  no  scheme,  depended 

Temperament.       °"  ^^^  chance  whether  the  irritable  minister  was 

in  good  or  bad  humour. 

When  asked  on  his  deathbed  if  he  forgave  his  enemies,  he 

replied,  conscientiously  ignorant   of  his   many  offences  against 

the  brotherhood  between  man  and  man,  "  I  owe  no  forgiveness 

to  enemies;  I  never  had  any  except  those  of  the  state." 

Nor  is  it  our  favourite  vices  alone  that  lead  us  into  danger 
—  noble  natures  are  as  liable  to  be  led  astray  by  their  favourite 
virtues. 

Men  of  really  great  capacities  for  pradical  business  will 
generally  be  found  to  indulge  in  a  prediledion  for  works  of 
fancy. 


180 


BOOK-SHELF 

MACAU  LAY. 


The  following  letters  are  given  not  only  as  a  specimen  of 
fine  epistolary  correspondence  in  one  so  young,  from  thirteen 
to  twenty  years  of  age,  but  to  show,  that  most  lovely  of  all 
charaderistics,  filial  affedion: — 

Shelford,   February  22,    18 13. 
My  Dear  Papa:  — 

As  this  is  a  whole  holiday,  I   cannot  find  a  better  time  for 
answering  your  letter.     With  resped:  to  my  health,  I  am  very 
well,   and    tolerably   cheerful,   as    Blundell,  the 
best  and  most  clever  of  all  the  scholars,  is  very  Juvenile 

kind,  and  talks  to  me,  and  takes  my  part.      He      Correspondence. 
is  quite  a  friend  of  Mr.  Preston's.     The  other 
boys,  especially  Lyon,  a  Scotch  boy,  and  Wilberforce,  are  very 
good   natured,  and  we  might  have  gone  on  very  well,  had   not 

one  ,  a    Bristol   fellow,  come   here.      He    is   unanimously 

allowed  to  be  a  queer  fellow,  and  is  generally  charadlerized  as  a 
foolish  boy,  and  by  most  of  us  as  an  ill-natured  one.  In  my 
learning  I  do  Xenophon  every  day,  and  twice  a  week  the 
"Odyssey,"  in  which  I  am  classed  with  Wilberforce,  whom  all 
the  boys  allow  to  be  very  clever,  very  droll,  and  very  impudent. 
We  do  Latin  verses  twice  a  week,  and  I  have  not  yet  been 
laughed  at,  as  Wilberforce  is  the  only  one  who  hears  them, 
being  in  my  class.  We  are  exercised  also  once  a  week  in  Eng- 
lish composition,  and  once  in  Latin  composition,  and  letters  of 
persons  renowned  in  history  to  each  other.  We  get  by  heart 
Greek  grammar  or  Virgil  every  evening.  As  for  sermon-writ- 
ing, I  have  hitherto  got  off  with  credit,  and  I  hope  I  shall  keep 
up  my  reputation.  We  have  had  the  first  meeting  of  our  debat- 
ing society  the  other  day,  when  a  vote  of  censure  was  moved  for 
upon  Wilberforce;  but  he,  getting  up,  said,  "Mr.  President,  I 

181 


MY      FAVORITE 

^<^w....  V  ri  /  \  n  ^"-ai- ..  .y  If  I  /o\  111  ^v,»;^  ..>'    in  /  \  111   ^-" i^ 


beg  to  second  the  motion."  By  this  means  he  escaped.  The 
kindness  which  Mr.  Preston  shows  me  is  very  great.  He  always 
assists  me  in  what  I  cannot  do,  and  takes  me  to  walk  out  with 
him  every  now  and  then.  My  room  is  a  delightful,  snug  little 
chamber,  which  nobody  can  enter,  as  there  is  a  trick  about  open- 
ing the  door.  I  sit,  like  a  king,  with  my  writing-desk  before 
me;  for  (would  you  believe  it?)  there  is  a  writing-desk  in  my 
chest  of  drawers;  my  books  on  one  side,  my  box  of  papers  on 
the  other,  with  my  arm-chair  and  my  candle;  for  every  boy  has 
a  candlestick,  snuffers,  and  extinguisher  of  his  own.  Being 
pressed  for  room,  1  will  conclude  what  I  have  to  say  tomorrow, 
and  ever  remain   your  affediionate  son, 

Thomas  B.  Macaulay. 

Shelford,  April  20,  18 13. 
My  Dear  Mama:  — 

Pursuant  to  my  promise,  I  resume  my  pen  to  write  to  you 
with   the  greatest  pleasure.     Since   I   wrote  to  you  yesterday,  I 

have  enjoyed  myself  more  than  I  have  ever  done 
His  Early  since  I  came  to  Shelford.  Mr.  Hodson  called 
Reading.  about  twelve  o'clock  yesterday  morning  with  a 

pony  for  me,  and  took  me  with  him  to  Cam- 
bridge. How  surprised  and  delighted  was  1  to  learn  that  I  was 
to  take  a  bed  at  Queen's  College  in  Dean  Milner's  apartments! 
Wilberforce  arrived  soon  after,  and  I  spent  the  day  very  agree- 
ably, the  dean  amusing  me  with  the  greatest  kindness.  I  slept 
there  and  came  home  on  horseback  to-day  just  in  time  for 
dinner.  The  dean  has  invited  me  to  come  again,  and  Mr.  Pres- 
ton has  given  his  consent.  Ihe  books  which  I  am  at  present 
employed  in  reading  to  myself  are,  in  Knglish,  "  Plutarch's 
J.ives,"  and  Milner's  "  Ecclesiastical  History";  in  French, 
Fenelon's  "  Dialogues  of  the  Dead."  I  shall  send  you  back  the 
volumes  of  Madame  de  Genlis's/)(?//7j  romans  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  for  one  or  two  more  of  them. 
Everything  now  seems  to  feel  the  influence  of  spring.  The 
trees  are  all  out.      The  lilacs  are  in  bloom.      The  days  are  long, 

182 


BOOK-SHELF 


and  I  feel  that  I  should  be  happy  were  It  not  that  I  want  home. 
Even  yesterday,  when  I  felt  more  real  satisfaftion  than  I  have 
done  for  almost  three  months,  I  could  not  help  feeling  a  sort  of 
uneasiness,  which  indeed  I  have  always  felt  more  or  less  since  I 
have  been  here,  and  which  is  the  only  thing  that  hinders  me 
from  being  perfe6tly  happy.  This  day  two  months  will  put  a 
period  to  my  uneasiness. 

"Fly  fast  the  hours,   and  dawn  th'   expefled  morn," 

Every  night  when  I  lie  down  I  refled  that  another  day  is 
cut  off  from  the  tiresome  time  of  absence. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

Thomas  B.  Macaulay. 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1814  Mr.  Preston  removed  his 
establishment  to  Aspenden  Hall,  near  Buntingford,  in  Hertford- 
shire, a  large  old-fashioned  mansion,  standing 
amidst  extensive  shrubberies  and  a  pleasant,  un-  Removal  to 
dulating  domain,  sprinkled  with  fine  timber.  Aipenden  Hall. 
The  house  has  been  rebuilt  within  the  last 
twenty  years,  and  nothing  remains  of  it  except  the  dark  oak 
paneling  of  the  hall  in  which  the  scholars  made  their  recitations 
on  the  annual  speech-day.  The  very  pretty  church,  which 
stands  hard  by  within  the  grounds,  was  undergoing  restoration 
in  1873  ;  and  by  this  time  the  only  existing  portion  of  the  former 
internal  fittings  is  the  family  pew,  in  which  the  boys  sat  on 
drowsy  summer  afternoons,  doing  what  they  could  to  keep  their 
impressions  of  the  second  sermon  distindt  from  their  reminis- 
cences of  the  morning.  Here  Macaulay  spent  four  most  indus- 
trious years,  doing  less  and  less  in  the  class-room  as  time  went 
on,  but  enjoying  the  rare  advantage  of  studying  Greek  and 
Latin  by  the  side  of  such  a  scholar  as  Maiden.  The  two  com- 
panions were  equally  matched  in  age  and  classical  attainments, 
and  at  the  university  maintained  a  rivalry  so  generous  as  hardly 
to  deserve  the  name.  Each  of  the  pupils  had  his  own  cham- 
ber, which  the  others  were  forbidden  to  enter  under  the  penalty 

•  83 


MY      FAVORITE 


of  a  shilling  fine.  This  prohibition  was  in  general  not  very 
stridly  observed,  but  the  tutor  had  taken  the  precaution  of 
placing  Macaulay  in  the  room  next  his  own:  a  proximity  which 
rendered  the  position  of  an  intruder  so  exceptionally  dangerous 
that  even  Maiden  could  not  remember  having  once  passed  his 
friend's  threshold  during  the  whole  of  their  stay  at  Aspenden. 
In  this  seclusion,  removed  from  the  delight  of  family  inter- 
course (the  only  attraction  strong  enough  to  draw  him  from   his 

His  Unerring  boolcs)  the  boy  read  widely,  unceasingly,  more 
Memory  and  Capac-  than  rapidly.    The  secret  of  his  immense  acquire- 

ityfor  i^ick  ments  lay  in  two  invaluable  gifts  of  nature:  an 
Reading.  unerring  memory,  and  the  capacity  for  taking  in 

at  a  glance  the  contents  of  a  printed  page.  During  the  first  part 
of  his  life  he  remembered  whatever  caught  his  fancy,  without 
going  through  the  process  of  consciously  getting  it  by  heart. 
As  a  child,  during  one  of  the  numerous  seasons  when  the  social 
duties  devolved  upon  Mr.  Macaulay,  he  accompanied  his  father 
on  an  afternoon  call,  and  found  on  a  table  the  "Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,"  which  he  had  never  before  met  with.  He  kept 
himself  quiet  with  his  prize  while  the  elders  were  talking,  and 
on  his  return  home  sat  down  upon  his  mother's  bed,  and 
repeated  to  her  as  many  cantos  as  she  had  the  patience  or  the 
strength  to  listen  to.  At  one  period  of  his  life  he  was  known 
to  say  that,  that  if  by  some  miracle  of  vandalism  all  copies 
of  "Paradise  Lost"  and  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress"  were  de- 
stroyed off  the  face  of  the  earth,  he  would  undertake  to  reproduce 
them  both  from  recollection  whenever  a  revival  of  learning  came. 
In  1813,  while  waiting  in  a  Cambridge  coffee-room  for  a  post- 
chaise  which  was  to  take  him  to  his  school,  he  picked  up  a 
country  newspaper  containing  two  such  specimens  of  provincial 
poetical  talent  as  in  those  days  might  be  read  in  the  corner  of 
any  weekly  journal.  One  piece  was  headed  "  Reflections  of  an 
Kxile,"  while  the  other  was  a  trumpery  parody  on  the  Welsh 
ballad  "Ar  hyd  y  nos,"  referring  to  some  local  anecdote  of 
an  hostler  whose  nose  had  been  bitten  off  by  a  filly.  He  looked 
them  once  through,  and   never  gave   them  a  thought  for  forty 

184 


BOOK-SHELF 


T^      t?) 


years,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  repeated  them  both  without 
missing,  or,  as  far  as  he  knew,  changing  a  single  word. 

As  he  grew  older,  this  wonderful  power  became  impaired  so 
far  that  getting  by  rote  the  compositions  of  others  was  no  longer 
an  involuntary  process.  He  has  noted  in  his  Lucan  the  several 
occasions  on  which  he  committed  to  memory  his  favorite  pas- 
sages of  an  author  whom  he  regarded  as  unrivaled  among 
rhetoricians,  and  the  dates  refer  to  the  year  1836,  when  he  had 
just  turned  the  middle  point  of  life.  During  his  last  years,  at 
his  dressing-table  in  the  morning,  he  would  learn  by  heart  one 
of  the  little  idyls  in  which  Martial  expatiates  on  the  enjoyments 
of  a  Spanish  country-house  or  a  villa-farm  in  the  environs  of 
Rome  —  those  delicious  morsels  of  verse  which  (considering  the 
sense  that  modern  ideas  attach  to  the  name)  it  is  an  injustice  to 
class  under  the  head  of  epigrams. 

Macaulay's    extraordinary   faculty   of   assimilating    printed 
matter  at  first  sight  remained   the   same  through  life.     To  the 
end   he   read    books   faster    than    other    people      ///^  Faculty  for 
skimmed   them,  and  skimmed  them  as  fast  as        Assimilating 
any  one    else    could    turn    the    leaves.      "  He    Printed  Matter  at 
seemed  to  read  through  the  skin,"  said  one  who        ^^^^*  Sight. 
had  often  watched  the  operation.     And  this  speed  was  not  in  his 
case  obtained  at  the  expense  of  accuracy.     Anything  which  had 
once  appeared  in  type,  from  the   highest  effort  of  genius  down 
to  the  most  detestable  trash  that  ever  consumed  ink  and  paper 
manufadured   for   better  things,   had  in   his   eyes  an   authority 
which  led  him  to  look  upon  misquotation  as  a  species  of  minor 
sacrilege. 

With  these  endowments,  sharpened  by  an  insatiable  curi- 
osity, from  his  fourteenth  year  onward  he  was  permitted  to 
roam  almost  at  will  over  the  whole  expanse  of  literature.  He 
composed  little  beyond  his  school  exercises,  which  themselves 
bear  signs  of  having  been  written  in  a  perfundory  manner. 
At  this  period  he  had  evidently  no  heart  in  anything  but  his 
reading. 


185 


MY      FAVORITE 


AsPENDEN  Hall,  August  23,  181 5. 
My  Dear  Mama:  — 

You  perceive  already  in  so  large  a  sheet  and  so  small  a 
hand  the  promise  of  a  long,  a  very  long  letter;  longer,  as  I 
intend  it,  than  all  the  letters  which  you  send  in  a  half-year 
together.  I  have  again  begun  my  life  of  sterile  monotony, 
unvarying  labor,  the  dull  return  of  dull  exercises  in  dull  uni- 
formity of  tediousness.      But  do  not  think  that  I  complain. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is. 

Such  perfeft  joy  therein  I  find 
As  doth  exceed  all  other  bliss 

That  God  or  nature  hath  assigned. 

Assure  yourself  that   I   am    philosopher   enough   to   be  happy, 

I    meant  to  say  not  particularly  unhappy,  in  solitude;  but  man 

is  an  animal  made  for  society.    I  was  gifted  with 

Fhiloiopher        reason,  not  to  speculate  in  Aspenden   Park,  but 

Enough  to  be  .  ,  t  ,  .  ,  ^  , 

Happs  ^^  mterchange  ideas  with  some   person  who  can 

understand  me.  This  is  what  1  miss  at  Aspen- 
den. There  are  several  here  who  possess  both  taste  and  read- 
ing, who  can  criticise  Lord  Byron  and  Southey  with  much  ta(5t 
and  "savoir  du  metier."  But  here  it  is  not  the  fashion  to 
think.  Hear  what  I  have  read  since  I  came  here.  Hear  and 
wonder!  1  have  in  the  first  place  read  Boccaccio's  "Decam- 
eron," a  tale  of  an  hundred  cantos.  He  is  a  wonderful  writer. 
Whether  he  tells  in  humorous  or  familiar  strains  the  follies  of 
the  silly  Calandrino,  or  the  witty  pranks  of  Buffalmacco  and 
Bruno,  or  sings  in  loftier  numbers 

Dames,  knights,  and  arms,  and  love,  the  feats  that  spring 
From  courteous  minds  and  generous  faith, 

or  lashes  with  a  noble  severity  and  fearless  independence  the 
vices  of  the  monks  and  the  priestcraft  of  the  established  reli- 
gion, he  is  always  elegant,  amusing,  and,  what  pleases  and  sur- 
prises most  in  a  writer  of  so  unpolished  an  age,  strikingly 
delicate  and  chastised.  I  prefer  him  infinitely  to  Chaucer.  If 
you  wish  for  a  good  specimen  of  Boccaccio,  as  soon  as  you  have 

186 


BOOK-SHELF 


finished  my  letter  (which  will  come,  I  suppose,  by  dinner-time) 
send  Jane  up  to  the  library  for  Dryden's  "  Poems,"  and  you 
will  find  among  them  several  translations  from  Boccaccio,  partic- 
ularly one  entitled  "Theodore  and  Honoria." 

But  truly  admirable  as  the  bard  of  Florence  is,  I  must  not 
permit   myself  to  give   him    more   than    his   due   share  of  my 
letter.      I    have   likewise  read  "  Gil  Bias,"  with 
unbounded    admiration   of    the   abilities   of   Le      A  Fortnight^ 
Sage.      Maiden    and    1    have    read    "Thalaba"  Reading. 

together,  and  are  proceeding  to  the  "  Curse  of 
Kehama."  Do  not  think,  however,  that  I  am  negled:ing  more 
important  studies  than  either  Southey  or  Boccaccio.  1  have 
read  the  greater  part  of  the  "History  of  James  I"  and  Mrs. 
Montague's  essay  on  Shakespeare,  and  a  great  deal  of  Gibbon. 
I  never  devoured  so  many  books  in  a  fortnight.  John  Smith, 
Bob  Hankinson,  and  I,  went  over  the  "Hebrew  Melodies" 
together.  I  certainly  think  far  better  of  them  than  we  used  to 
do  at  Clapham.  Papa  may  laugh,  and  indeed  he  did  laugh  me 
out  of  my  taste  at  Clapham ;  but  I  think  that  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  beauty  in  the  first  melody,  "She  walks  in  beauty," 
though  indeed  who  it  is  that  walks  in  beauty  is  not  very  exactly 
defined.  My  next  letter  shall  contain  a  production  of  my  muse 
entitled  "An  Inscription  for  the  Column  of  Waterloo,"  which  is 
to  be  shown  to  Mr.  Preston  to-morrow.  What  he  may  think 
of  it  I  do  not  know.  But  I  am  like  my  favorite  Cicero  about 
my  own  productions.  It  is  all  one  to  me  what  others  think  of 
them.  I  never  like  them  a  bit  less  for  being  disliked  by  the 
rest  of  mankind.  Mr.  Preston  has  desired  me  to  bring  him  up 
this  evening  two  or  three  subjedis  for  a  declamation.  Those 
which  1  have  selected  are  as  follows:  ist,  a  speech  in  the  char- 
ad:er  of  Lord  Coningsby  impeaching  the  Earl  of  Oxford;  2nd, 
an  essay  on  the  utiHty  of  standing  armies;  3rd,  an  essay  on  the 
policy  of  Great  Britain  with  regard  to  Continental  possessions. 
I  conclude  with  sending  my  love  to  papa,  Selina,  Jane,  John 
("but  he  is  not  there,"  as  Fingal  pathetically  says  when  in  enu- 
merating his  sons  who  should  accompany  him  to  the  chase  he 

187 


MY      FAVORITE 


inadvertently  mentions  the  dead  Ryno),  Henry,  Fanny,  Hannah, 
Margaret,  and  Charles.  Valete, 

T.  B.   Macaulay. 

Cambridge,  January  5,  1820. 
My  Dear  Father:  — 

Nothing  that  gives  you  disquietude  can  give  me  amuse- 
ment. Otherwise  1  should  have  been  excessively  diverted  by 
Resents  His  ^^^  dialogue  which  you  have  reported  with  so 
Father' s  Accusation  much  vivacity ;  the  accusation;  the  predidlions; 
of  Being  a  and  the  elegant  agnomen  of  "the  novel-reader" 
''  ^ovel-Readerr  f^j.  ^hj^h  I  am  indebted  to  this  incognito.  I 
went  in  some  amazement  to  Maiden,  Romilly,  and  Barlow. 
Their  acquaintance  comprehends,  I  will  venture  to  say,  almost 
every  man  worth  knowing  in  the  university  in  every  field  of 
study.  They  had  never  heard  the  appellation  applied  to  me  by 
any  man.  Their  intimacy  with  me  would  of  course  prevent  any 
person  from  speaking  to  them  on  the  subjed  in  an  insulting 
manner;  for  it  is  not  usual  here,  whatever  your  unknown 
informant  may  do,  for  a  gentleman  who  does  not  wish  to  be 
kicked  down-stairs  to  reply  to  a  man  who  mentions  another  as 
his  particular  friend,  "  Do  you  mean  the  blackguard  or  the 
novel-reader?"  But  I  am  fully  convinced  that,  had  the  charge 
prevailed  to  any  extent,  it  must  have  reached  the  ears  of  one  of 
those  whom  I  interrogated.  At  all  events  I  have  the  consola- 
tion of  not  being  thought  a  novel-reader  by  three  or  four  who 
are  entitled  to  judge  upon  the  subje6t;  and  whether  their 
opinion  be  of  equal  value  with  that  of  this  John-a-Nokes 
against  whom  I  have  to  plead,  I  leave  you  to  decide. 

But  stronger  evidence,  it  seems,  is  behind.    This  gentleman 

was  in  company  with  me.     Alas  that  I  should  never  have  found 

out    how   accurate   an    observer    was    measuring 

»/"  /        •    /    my  sentiments,  numbering  the   novels   which   I 

Are  Mathematical        /  .    .  ,  ,     .       °  i     i  •,•  c 

Blocks  criticised,  and  speculating  on   the   probability  or 

my  being  plucked.     "  I  was  familiar  with  all   the 

novels  whose   names    he    had   ever   heard."      If  so  frightful  an 

188 


BOOK-SHELF 


accusation  did  not  stun  me  at  once,  I  might  perhaps  hint  at  the 
possibility  that  this  was  to  be  attributed  almost  as  much  to  the 
narrowness  of  his  reading  on  this  subje<ft  as  to  the  extent  of  mine. 
There  are  men  here  who  are  mere  mathematical  blocks,  who  plod 
on  their  eight  hours  a  day  to  the  honors  of  the  Senate-House; 
who  leave  the  groves  which  witnessed  the  musings  of  Milton,  of 
Bacon,  and  of  Gray,  without  one  liberal  idea  or  elegant  image, 
and  carry  with  them  into  the  world  minds  contracted  by  un- 
mingled  attention  to  one  part  of  science,  and  memories  stored 
only  with  technicalities.  How  often  have  I  seen  such  men  go 
forth  into  society  for  people  to  stare  at  them,  and  ask  each  other 
how  it  comes  that  beings  so  stupid  in  conversation,  so  unin- 
formed on  every  subject  of  history,  of  letters,  and  of  taste,  could 
gain  such  distindtion  at  Cambridge!  It  is  in  such  circles,  which, 
I  am  happy  to  say,  I  hardly  know  but  by  report,  that  knowl- 
edge of  modern  literature  is  called  novel-reading;  a  commodious 
name,  invented  by  ignorance,  and  applied  by  envy,  in  the  same 
manner  as  men  without  learning  call  a  scholar  a  pedant,  and  men 
without  principle  call  a  Christian  a  Methodist.  To  me  the 
attacks  of  such  men  are  valuable  as  compliments.  The  man 
whose  friend  tells  him  that  he  is  known  to  be  extensively 
acquainted  with  elegant  literature  may  suspe(5l  that  he  is  flattering 
him;  but  he  may  feel  real  and  secure  satisfadion  when  some 
Johnian  sneers  at  him  for  a  novel-reader. 

As  for  the  question  whether  or  not  I  am  wasting  time,  I 
shall  leave  that  for  time  to  answer.  I  cannot  afford  to  sacrifice 
a  day  every  week  in  defense  and  explanation  as  to  my  habits  of 
reading.  I  value,  most  deeply  value,  that  solicitude  which  arises 
from  your  affedion  for  me ;  but  let  it  not  debar  me  from  justice 
and  candor.     Believe  me  ever,  my  dear  father, 

Your  most  affectionate  son,  T.   B.   M. 

Trin.  Coll.,  March  25,   1821. 
My  Dear  Mother:  — 

I  entreat  you  to  entertain  no  apprehensions  about  my 
health.      My  fever,  cough,  and  sore-throat  have  all  disappeared 

189 


MY      FAVORITE 


for  the  last  four  days.     Many  thanks  for  your  intelligence  about 
poor   dear   John's   recovery,  which  has   much   exhilarated   me. 

Yet  I  do  not  know  whether  illness  to  him  is  not 

Recalls  a  rather  a   prerogative  than  an  evil.      I   am  sure 

Former  Sickness,     that   it   is   well   worth   while   being    sick   to   be 

nursed  by  a  mother.  There  is  nothing  which  I 
remember  with  such  pleasure  as  the  time  when  you  nursed  me 
at  Aspenden.  The  other  night,  when  I  lay  on  my  sofa  very  ill 
and  hypochondriac,  I  was  thinking  over  that  time.  How  sick, 
and  sleepless,  and  weak  I  was,  lying  in  bed,  when  I  was  told 
that  you  were  come!  How  well  I  remember  with  what  an 
ecstasy  of  joy  I  saw  that  face  approaching  me,  in  the  middle  of 
people  that  did  not  care  if  I  died  that  night,  except  for  the 
trouble  of  burying  me!  The  sound  of  your  voice,  the  touch 
of  your  hand,  are  present  to  me  now,  and  will  be,  I  trust  in 
God,  to  my  last  hour.  The  very  thought  of  these  things 
invigorated  me  the  other  day;  and  I  almost  blessed  the  sickness 
and  low  spirits  which  brought  before  me  associated  images  of 
a  tenderness  and  an  affedion,  which,  however  imperfedly  repaid, 
are  deeply  remembered.  Such  scenes  and  such  recolledlions  are 
the  bright  half  of  human  nature  and  human  destiny. 

All  objeds  of  ambition,  all  rewards  of  talent,  sink  into 
nothing  compared  with  that  affedlion  which  is  independent  of 
good  or  adverse  circumstances,  excepting  that  it  is  never  so 
ardent,  so  delicate,  or  so  tender,  as  in  the  hour  of  languor  or 
distress.  But  I  must  stop.  I  had  no  intention  of  pouring  out 
on  paper  what  I  am  much  more  used  to  think  than  to  express. 
Farewell,  my  dear  mother. 

Ever  yours,  affed:ionately, 

T.   B.   Macaulay. 

Cambridge,  July  26,  1822. 
My   Dear  Father:  — 

I  have  been  engaged  to  take  two  pupils  for  nine  months 
of  the  next  year.  They  are  brothers,  whose  father,  a  Mr.  Stod- 
dart,  resides  at  Cambridge.      I  am   to  give  them  an  hour  a  day 

190 


BOOK-SHELF 


each,  and  am  to  receive  a  hundred  guineas.      It  gives  me  great 
pleasure  to  be  able  even  in  this  degree  to  relieve  you  from  the 
burden  of  my  expenses  here.      I  begin  my  tuto- 
rial labors  to-morrow.      My  pupils  are  young,      He  Takes  Two 
one  being  fifteen,  and  the  other  thirteen  years  Pupils. 

old;  but  I  hear  excellent  accounts  of  their  pro- 
ficiency, and  I  intend  to  do  my  utmost  for  them.      Farewell. 

T.  B.   M. 

Macaulay  was   called   to   the   bar  in    1826,  and  joined  the 
Northern    Circuit    at    Leeds.     On    the    evening    that    he   first 
appeared    at    mess,    when    the    company    were 
retiring  for  the   night,  he  was   observed  to  be  The  Leeds 

carefully   picking  out  the   longest  candle.     An  Bagmen. 

old  king's  counsel,  who  noticed  that  he  had  a 
volume  under  his  arm,  remonstrated  with  him  on  the  danger 
of  reading  in  bed,  upon  which  he  rejoined  with  immense 
rapidity  of  utterance:  "I  always  read  in  bed  at  home;  and 
if  I  am  not  afraid  of  committing  parricide  and  matricide  and 
fratricide,  I  can  hardly  be  exped;ed  to  pay  any  special  regard 
to  the  lives  of  the  bagmen  of  Leeds."  And,  so  saying,  he 
left  his  hearers  staring  at  one  another,  and  marched  off  to  his 
room,  little  knowing  that  before  many  years  were  out  he  would 
have  occasion  to  speak  much  more  respectfully  of  the  Leeds 
bagmen. 

Under  its  social  asped,  Macaulay  heartily  enjoyed  his  legal 
career.  He  made  an  admirable  literary  use  of  the  Saturnalia, 
which  the  Northern  Circuit  calls  by  the  name  of  "Grand 
Night,"  when  personalities  of  the  most  pronounced  description 
are  welcomed  by  all  except  the  object  of  them,  and  forgiven 
even  by  him.  His  hand  may  be  recognized  in  a  macaronic 
poem,  written  in  Greek  and  English,  describing  the  feast  at 
which  Alexander  murdered  Clitus.  The  death  of  the  vidim  is 
treated  with  an  exuberance  of  fantastic  drollery ;  and  a  song,  put 
into  the  mouth  of  Nearchus,  the  admiral  of  the  Macedonian 
fleet,  and  beginning  with  the  lines, 

191 


MY      FAVORITE 


When  as  first  I  did  come  back  from  ploughing  the  salt  water, 
Thev  paid  me  off  at  Salamis,  three  minx  and  a  quarter, 

is  highly  Aristophanic  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 

He  did  not  seriously  look  to  the  bar  as  a  profession.  No 
persuasion  could  induce  him  to  return  to  his  chambers  in  the 

Spent  More  Time    evening,  according  to  the  practise  then  in  vogue. 
in  the  House  of     After  the  first  year  or  two  of  the  period  during 

Commons  than  at  which  he  called  himself  a  barrister  he  gave  up 
the  Courts.  even  the  pretense  of  reading  law,  and  spent 
many  more  hours  under  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons 
than  in  all  the  courts  together.  The  person  who  knew  him  best 
said  of  him:  "Throughout  life  he  never  really  applied  himself 
to  any  pursuit  that  was  against  the  grain."  Nothing  is  more 
characteristic  of  the  man  than  the  contrast  between  his  uncon- 
querable aversion  to  the  science  of  jurisprudence  at  the  time 
when  he  was  ostensibly  preparing  himself  to  be  an  advocate,  and 
the  zest  with  which,  on  his  voyage  to  India,  he  mastered  that 
science,  in  principle  and  in  detail,  as  soon  as  his  imagination  was 
fired  by  the  prosped:  of  the  responsibilities  of  a  lawgiver. 

So  loyal  and  sincere  was  Macaulay's  nature  that  he  was 
unwilling  to   live  upon  terms  of  even  apparent  intimacy  with 

people   whom    he   did  not    like,   or   could    not 

His  Sensitive       esteem  ;  and,  as  far  as  civility  allowed,  he  avoided 

Nature.  their  advances,  and  especially  their  hospitality. 

He  did  not  choose,  he  said,  to  eat  salt  with  a 
man  for  whom  he  could  not  say  a  good  word  in  all  companies. 
He  was  true  throughout  life  to  those  who  had  once  acquired  his 
regard  and  resped.  He  was  never  known  to  take  part  in  any 
family  quarrel,  or  personal  broil  of  any  description  whatsoever. 
His  conduct  in  this  respe6t  was  the  result  of  self-discipline,  and 
did  not  proceed  from  any  want  of  sensibility.  "  He  is  very  sen- 
sitive," said  his  sister  Margaret,  "and  remembers  long,  as  well 
as  feels  deeply,  anything  in  the  form  of  slight."  Indeed,  at 
College  his  friends  used  to  tell  him  that  his  leading  qualities 
were  "generosity  and  vindidtiveness."     Courage  he  certainly  did 

192 


BOOK-SHELF 


not  lack.  During  the  years  when  his  spirit  was  high,  and  his 
pen  cut  deep,  and  when  the  habits  of  society  were  different  from 
what  they  are  at  present,  more  than  one  adversary  displayed 
symptoms  of  a  desire  to  meet  him  elsewhere  than  on  paper. 
On  these  occasions,  while  showing  consideration  for  his  oppo- 
nent, he  evinced  a  quiet  but  very  decided  sense  of  what  was  due 
to  himself  which  commanded  the  resped  of  all  who  were  impli- 
cated, and  brought  difficulties  that  might  have  been  grave  to  an 
honorable  and  satisfactory  issue. 

The  main  secret  of  Macaulay's  success  lay  in  this,  that  to 
extraordinary  fluency  and  facility  he  united  patient,  minute,  and 
persistent  diligence.     He  knew  well,  as  Chaucer  did  before  him, 

^1^^^  There  is  na  workeman 

That  bothe  worken  wel  and  hastilie. 
This  must  be  done  at  leisure  parfaitlie. 

If  his  method  of  composition   ever  comes  into  fashion,  books 
probably  will  be  better,  and  undoubtedly  will  be  shorter.     As 
soon  as  he  had  got  into  his  head  all  the  informa- 
tion  relating  to  any  particular  episode,  he  would     ^  ""  " 

sit  down  and  write  oflF  the  whole  story  at  a  head-  Dilizence. 
long  pace;  sketching  in  the  outlines  under  the 
genial  and  audacious  impulse  of  a  first  conception ;  and  securing 
in  black  and  white  each  idea  and  epithet,  and  turn  of  phrase,  as 
it  flowed  straight  from  his  busy  brain  to  his  rapid  fingers.  His 
manuscript,  at  this  stage,  to  the  eyes  of  any  one  but  himself, 
appeared  to  consist  of  column  after  column  of  dashes  and  flour- 
ishes, in  which  a  straight  line  with  a  half-formed  letter  at  each 
end  and  another  in  the  middle,  did  duty  for  a  word. 

As  soon  as  Macaulay  had  finished  his  rough  draft,  he  began 
to  fill  it  in  at  the  rate  of  six  sides  of  foolscap  every  morning, 
written  in  so  large  a  hand,  and  with  such  a  mul- 
titude of  erasures,  that  the  whole  six  pages  were.        His  Methods 
on   an   average,  compressed   into  two  pages  of        of  Writing. 
print.     He   never   allowed    a   sentence   to  pass 
muster  until  it  was  as  good  as  he  could  make  it.     He   thought 

193 


MY      FAVORITE 


little  of  recasting  a  chapter  in  order  to  obtain  a  more  lucid 
arrangement,  and  nothing  whatever  of  reconstructing  a  para- 
graph for  the  sake  of  one  happy  stroke  or  apt  illustration. 
Whatever  the  worth  of  his  labor,  at  any  rate  it  was  a  labor  of 
love. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci  would  walk   the  whole  length  of  Milan 
that  he  might  alter  a  single  tint  in  his  pidure  of  the   Last  Sup- 
per.     Napoleon   kept  the   returns  of  his  army 
M h^'^N   l^Rd      ^"^^^  ^^^  pillow  at  night  to  refer  to  in  case  he 
No  Detail.         ^^^  sleepless;  and  would  set  himself  problems 
at   the  Opera  while  the   overture  was  playing: 
"  I    have  ten  thousand   men  at  Strasbourg;  fifteen  thousand  at 
Magdeburg;    twenty  thousand  at  Wurtzburg.      By  what  stages 
must  they  march  so  as  to  arrive  at  Ratisbon  on  three  successive 
days?"     What  his  violins  were  to  Stradivarius,  and  his  fresco 
to    Leonardo,  and   his   campaigns    to    Napoleon,  that  was  his 
"History"  to  Macaulay. 

When,  at   length,  after  repeated  revisions,  Macaulay  had 

satisfied  himself  that  his  writing  was  as  good  as  he  could  make 

it,  he  would  submit  it  to  the  severest  of  all  tests, 

irr  f'/  u" ■        that  of  being  read  aloud  to  others.     Though  he 

IVork  by  Having  °    ,  ,  .  .  .        .      <=> 

It  Read  Aloud,      ^ever  ventured  on   this  experiment  in  the  pres- 
ence of  any  except  his  own  family  and  his  friend 
Mr.    Ellis,   it    may   well    be    believed    that,    even    within    that 
restrifted  circle,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  hearers. 

"October  25,  1849.  ^7  birthday.  Forty-nine  years  old. 
I  have  no  cause  of  complaint.  Tolerable  health;  competence; 
liberty;  leisure;  very  dear  relations  and  friends;  a  great,  I  may 
say  a  very  great,  literary  reputation. 

**  Nil  amplius  oro. 
Mail  nate,  nisi  ut  propria  haec  mihi  munera  faxis. 

(My  only  prayer  is,  O  son  of  Maia,  that  thou  wilt  make  these 
blessings  my  own!)  But  how  will  that  be?  My  fortune  is 
tolerably  secure   against  anything  but  a  great  public  calamity. 

194 


BOOK-SHELF 


My  liberty  depends  on  myself,  and  I  shall  not  easily  part  with 
it.     As  to  fame,  it  may  fade  and  die;  but  I  hope  that  mine  has 
deeper  roots.     This  I  cannot  but  perceive,  that 
even  the  hasty  and   imperfed   articles  which   1       Applame  and 

r        1        7-  /•    ;         1    r,       ■  1        11  Apprectation  of 

wrote  ror  the  Edinburgh  Review  are  valued  by  a  ^^^  PForld. 
generation  which  has  sprung  up  since  they  were 
first  published.  While  two  editions  of  Jeffrey's  papers,  and 
four  of  Sydney's,  have  sold,  mine  are  reprinting  for  the  seventh 
time.  Then,  as  to  my  '  History,'  there  is  no  change  yet  in 
the  public  feeling  of  England.  I  find  that  the  United  States, 
France,  and  Germany  confirm  the  judgment  of  my  own  country. 
I  have  seen  not  less  than  six  German  reviews,  all  in  the  highest 
degree  laudatory.  This  is  a  sufficient  answer  to  those  detradors 
who  attribute  the  success  of  my  book  here  to  the  skill  with 
which  I  have  addressed  myself  to  mere  local  and  temporary 
feelings.  I  am  conscious  that  I  did  not  mean  to  address  myself 
to  such  feelings,  and  that  I  wrote  with  a  remote  past,  and  a 
remote  future,  constantly  in  my  mind.  The  applause  of  people 
at  Charleston,  people  at  Heidelberg,  and  people  at  Paris  has 
reached  me  this  very  week;  and  this  consent  of  men  so  differ- 
ently situated  leads  me  to  hope  that  I  have  really  achieved  the 
high  adventure  which  I  undertook,  and  produced  something 
which  will  live.  What  a  long  rigmarole!  But  on  a  birthday  a 
man  may  be  excused  for  looking  backward  and  forward." 

On  the  last  day  of  February,  1856,  Macaulay  writes  in  his 
journal:  "  Longman  called.  It  is  necessary  to  reprint.  This  is 
wonderful.  Twenty-six  thousand  five  hundred  copies  sold  in 
ten  weeks!  I  should  not  wonder  if  I  made  twenty  thousand 
pounds  clear  this  year  by  literature.  Pretty  well,  considering 
that,  twenty-two  years  ago,  I  had  just  nothing  when  my  debts 
were  paid;  and  all  that  I  have,  with  the  exception  of  a  small 
part  left  me  by  my  uncle,  the  general,  has  been  made  by  myself, 
and  made  easily  and  honestly,  by  pursuits  which  were  a  pleasure 
to  me,  and  without  one  insinuation  from  any  slanderer  that  I 
was  not  even  liberal  in  all  my  pecuniary  dealings." 


MY      FAVORITE 


March    7th.      Longman    came,  with   a   very   pleasant   an- 
nouncement.    He  and  his  partners  find  that  they  are  overflow- 
ing  with   money,   and   think   that   they   cannot 
^r^//     ay       Jnvest  it  better  than  by  advancing  to  me,  on  the 
Thousand  Pounds,    "sual  terms,  of  course,  part  of  what  will  be  due  to 
me  in  December.     We  agreed  that  they  shall  pay 
twenty  thousand  pounds  into  William's  Bank  next  week.    What 
a  sum  to  be  gained  by  one  edition  of  a  book!   I  may  say,  gained 
in  one   day.     But  that  was   harvest  day.     The  work  had  been 
near  seven  years  in  hand.      I  went  to  Westbourne  Terrace  by  a 
Paddington  omnibus,  and  passed  an   hour  there,  laughing  and 
laughed  at.     They  are  all   much   pleased.     They  have,  indeed, 
as  much  reason   to  be   pleased   as   I,  who  am   pleased  on  their 
account  rather  than  on  my  own,  though  I  am  glad  that  my  last 
years  will  be  comfortable.      Comfortable,  however,  I  could  have 
been  on  a  sixth  part  of  the  income  which  I  shall  now  have. 

The  wealth  which  Macaulay  gathered  prudently  he  spent 
royally;    if   to   spend   royally    is    to    spend    on    others    rather 
than   yourself.     From   the   time  that  he  began 
His  Great         to  feel   the   money  in   his   purse,  almost  every 
Liberality.         page  in  his  diary  contains  evidence  of  his  inex- 
haustible, and  sometimes  rather  carelessly  regu- 
lated, generosity. 

"  Mrs.  X applied  to  me,  as  she  said,  and  as  I  believe, 

without   her   husband's   knowledge,  for  help  in   his   profession. 
He  is  a  clergyman;  a  good  one,  but  too   Puri- 
Judicious  Gifts      tanical  for  my  taste.     I  could  not  promise  to  ask 
and  Charity.       any   favors   from   the   Government;  but  I   sent 
him  twenty-five   pounds   to  assist   him   in  sup- 
porting the  orphan  daughters  of  his  brother.     I  mean  to  let  him 
have  the  same  sum  annually."     "  I  have  been  forced  to  refuse 

any  further  assistance  to  a  Mrs.  Y ,  who  has  had  thirty-five 

pounds  from  me  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  and  whose  de- 
mands come  thicker  and  thicker.  I  suppose  that  she  will  resent 
my   refusal   bitterly.     That  is  all  that  1  ever  got  by  conferring 

196 


BOOK-SHELF 


benefits  on  any  but  my  own  nearest  relations  and  friends." 
"  H called.  1  gave  him  three  guineas  for  his  library  sub- 
scription. I  lay  out  very  little  money  with  so  much  satisfaction. 
For  three  guineas  a  year,  I  keep  a  very  good,  intelligent  young 
fellow  out  of  a  great  deal  of  harm,  and  do  him  a  great  deal  of 
good."     "  1  suppose,"   he  writes  to   one  of  his  sisters,  "  That 

you  told  Mrs.  Z that  I  was  not  angry  with  her;  for  to-day 

I  have  a  letter  from  her  begging  for  money  most  vehemently, 
and  saying  that,  if  I  am  obdurate,  her  husband  must  go  to 
prison.  I  have  sent  her  twenty  pounds,  making  up  what  she 
has  had  from  me  within  a  few  months  to  a  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds.  But  I  have  told  her  that  her  husband  must  take  the 
consequences  of  his  own  adts,  and  that  she  must  exped  no 
further  assistance  from  me.  This  importunity  has  provoked  me 
not  a  little." 

In  a  contemporary  account  of  Macaulay's  last  illness  it  is 
related  that  on  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  the  28th  of  Decem- 
ber,  he   mustered   strength   to   diftate   a   letter 
addressed  to  a  poor  curate,  inclosing  twenty-five  His  Last 

pounds;    after    signing    which    letter   he   never  Illness. 

wrote  his  name  again.  Late  in  the  afternoon  of 
the  same  day  I  called  at  Holly  Lodge,  intending  to  propose 
myself  to  dinner,  an  intention  which  was  abandoned  as  soon  as 
I  entered  the  library.  My  uncle  was  sitting,  with  his  head  bent 
forward  on  his  chest,  in  a  languid  and  drowsy  reverie.  The  first 
number  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  lay  unheeded  before  him, 
open  at  the  first  page  of  Thackeray's  story  of  "  Lovel  the 
Widower."  He  did  not  utter  a  word,  except  in  answer;  and 
the  only  one  of  my  observations  that  at  this  distance  of  time  I 
can  recall  suggested  to  him  painful  and  pathetic  refledions, 
which  altogether  destroyed  his  self-command. 

On  hearing  my  report  of  his  state,  my  mother  resolved  to 
spend  the  night  at  Holly  Lodge.  She  had  just  left  the  draw- 
ing-room to  make  her  preparations  for  the  visit  (it  being,  I 
suppose,  a  little  before  seven  in  the  evening),  when  a  servant 

197 


MY      FAVORITE 


arrived  with  an  urgent  summons.     As  we  drove  up  to  the  porch 
of  my  uncle's  house,  the  maids  ran,  crying,  out  into  the  darkness 
to  meet  us,  and  we  knew  that  all  was  over.    We 
Hf  Died  found  him  in  the  library,  seated  in  his  easy-chair, 

Without  Pain.      and  dressed  as  usual;  with  his  book  on  the  table 
beside  him,  still  open  at  the  same  page.     He 
had  told  his  butler  that  he  should  go   to   bed  early,  as  he  was 
very  tired.     The  man  proposed  his  lying  on  the  sofa.     He  rose 
as  if  to  move,  sat  down  again,  and  ceased  to  breathe.      He  died 
as  he   had  always  wished  to  die  —  without  pain;  without  any 
formal  farewell;  preceding  to  the  grave  all  whom  he  loved;  and 
leaving  behind  him  a  great  and  honorable  name,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  a  life  every  ad;ion  of  which  was  as  clear  and  transparent 
as  one  of  his  own  sentences.     It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to 
dwell  upon  the  regretful  astonishment  with  which  the  tidings  of 
his  death  were  received  wherever  the   English  language  is  read; 
and  quite  unnecessary  to  describe   the  enduring  grief  of  those 
upon  whom  he  had  lavished  his  affedtion,  and  for  whom  life  had 
been  brightened  by  daily  converse  with  his  genius,  and  ennobled 
by  familiarity  with  his  lofty  and  upright  example.     "We  have 
lost  (so  my  mother  wrote)  the  light  of  our  home,  the  most  ten- 
der, loving,  generous,  unselfish,  devoted  of  friends.     What  he 
was  to  me  for  fifty  years  how  can  I  tell?     What 
Left  a  Stainless      a  world  of  love   he   poured   out  upon   me  and 
Reputation.        mine!     The  blank,  the  void,  he  has  left  —  fill- 
ing, as  he  did,  so  entirely  both  heart  and  intel- 
le(5t  —  no  one  can  understand.      For  who  ever  knew  such  a  life 
as  mine  passed  as  the  cherished  companion  of  such  a  man?" 

He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  on  the  9th  of  Jan- 
uary, i860.  The  pall  was  borne  by  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  Lord 
John  Russell,  Lord  Stanhope,  Lord  Carlisle,  Bishop  Wilber- 
force,  Sir  David  Dundas,  Sir  Henry  Holland,  Dean  Milman, 
Sir  George  Cornewall  Lewis,  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  the 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.  "A  beautiful  sunrise," 
wrote  Lord  Carlisle.  "  The  pall-bearers  met  in  the  Jerusalem 
Chamber.     The  last  time  I  had  been  there  on  a  like  errand  was 

198 


BOOK-SHELF 


His  Funeral. 


at  Canning's  funeral.  The  whole  service  and  ceremony  were  in 
the  highest  degree  solemn  and  impressive.  All  befitted  the  man 
and  the  occasion." 

He  rests  with  his  peers  in  Poet's  Corner,  near  the  west 
wall  of  the  south  transept.  There,  amidst  the 
tombs  of  Johnson,  and  Garrick,  and  Handel, 
and  Goldsmith,  and  Gay,  stands  conspicuous 
the  statue  of  Addison ;  and  at  the  feet  of 
Addison   lies   the  stone   which   bears   this  inscription:  — 

THOMAS    BABINGTON,     LORD    MACAULAY. 

Born  at   Rothley  Temple,   Leicestershire, 

October   25,    1800. 

Died  at  Holly   Lodge,    Campden   Hill, 

December  28,    1859. 

"His  body  is  buried  in  peace. 
But  his  name  liveth   for  evermore." 


199 


MY      FAVORITE 


WILLIAM    MATHEWS. 


All  of  the  great  poets  have  at  some  time  been  accused  of 
being  great  thieves;  but  nothing  can  be  more  foolish  than  most 
of  these  attempts  to  rob  them  of  their  fame. 
All  of  the  Poets  Every  great  writer  is  necessarily  indebted 

Plagiarists.  both  to  his  contemporaries  and  to  his  predeces- 
sors. The  finest  passages  in  prose  and  poetry 
are  often  but  embellished  recolledlions  of  other  men's  pro- 
dudiions.  Thought  and  memory,  it  has  been  no  less  finely 
than  justly  said,  are  the  Alpheus  and  the  Arethusa  of  metaphy- 
sics; commit  any  material  to  the  latter,  and  after  a  long  period 
of  forgetfulness,  by  some  subterranean  transition,  it  will  appear 
floating  on  the  surface  of  the  former,  as  though  it  had  been 
thrown  up  from  no  other  sources  than  those  of  pure  invention. 
Had  Shakespeare,  thousand-souled  as  he  was,  been  confined 
from  childhood  to  a  desert  island,  could  he  have  written  the 
poorest  of  his  matchless  dramas;  or  could  Newton,  unaided  by 
the  preceding  mathematicians,  have  discovered  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation? What,  indeed,  is  every  great  poem  but  a  compendium 
of  the  imagination  of  centuries?  What  the  masterpieces  of 
painting,  but  a  combination  of  the  finest  lines  and  the  most 
exquisite  touches  of  earlier  and  inferior  artists, —  or  the  noblest 
works  of  statuary,  but  a  blending  into  one  form  of  angelic 
beauty  of  the  loveliest  features  and  most  graceful  lineaments 
wrought  by  hands  and  chisels  long  ago  crumbled  into  dust? 

In   all    ages,  the   greatest    literary  geniuses   have   been  the 
greatest     borrowers.      Omniverous    devourers    of    books,    with 
memories    like    hooks  of  steel,  they   have  not 
The  Celestial       scrupled  to  seize  and   to  turn  to  account  every 
Thief.  good  thought  they  could  pick  up  in  their  read- 

ings.     Milton,  who  has  been  called  "the  celes- 
tial thief,"  boldly  plagiarized  from  Dante  and  Tasso,  and  all  of 

200 


BOOK-SHELF 


them  from  Homer;  and  who  believes  that  Homer  had  no  reser- 
voir of  learning  to  draw  from,  no  mysterious  lake  of  knowledge, 
into  which  he  could  now  and  then  throw  a  bucket?     Goethe 
laughed  the  idea  of  absolute  originality  to  scorn,  and  declared 
that  it  was  an  author's  duty  to  use  all  that  was  suggested  to  him 
from    any  quarter.     "What    is  a  great  man,"   asks    Emerson, 
"but  one  of  great  affinities,  who  takes  up  into  himself  all  arts, 
sciences,  all  knowables,  as  his  food?     Every  book  is  a  quota- 
tion;   and  every  house  is   a  quotation  out  of  all  forests,  and 
mines,  and  stone  quarries;    and   every  man  is  a  quotation   from 
all  his  ancestors."     There  are  some  minds,  and  those,  too,  really 
produ6tive,  that  require  the  provocation  of  more 
suggestive  and  stimulating  ones  to  make  them       Everything  is 
work.     They  need  the  fertilizing  pollen  of  other       ^  Rotation. 
men's  thoughts  to  make  them  produdlive.     To 
attrad  every  available  thing  to  itself  is  a  natural  charadleristic  of 
the  magnetic  ardor  genius. 

All   these  great  poets  had  enormous   powers  of  assimila- 
tion; and  it  is  evident  to  every  scholar  who  reads   their  works, 
that  the  metal  in  which  they  wrought  was  not 
dug  newly  from  the  earth,  but,  like  the  Corin-  Literary 

thian  brass  of  the  ancients,  was  melted  up  from  Thieves. 

the  spoils  of  a  city.  Occasional  accidental  coin- 
cidences of  thought  and  expression  will  not  detract  from  a 
writer's  just  fame.  It  is  only  the  habitual  and  conscious  thief, 
the  man  who  lives  by  plunder,  and  who  thus  shows  himself  to 
be  both  weak  and  wicked,  that  merits  the  pillory.  Literal, 
bald  borrowing,  whether  of  the  plan  or  treatment  —  the  sub- 
stance to  form,  the  thoughts  or  expressions,  of  a  work,  is  abso- 
lutely indefensible;  but  he  is  not  a  thief  who  borrows  the  ideas 
of  a  hundred  other  men  and  repays  them  with  compound  inter- 
est. It  is  one  thing  to  purloin  finely  tempered  steel,  and 
another  to  take  a  pound  of  literary  old  iron,  and  convert  it  in 
the  furnace  of  one's  mind  into  a  hundred  watch-springs,  worth 
each  a  thousand  times  as  much  as  the  iron.  When  Genius 
borrows,  it   borrows   grandly,  giving  to  the   borrowed  matter  a 

20I 


MY     FAVORITE 


life  and  beauty  it  lacked  before.  When  Shakespeare  is  accused 
of  pilfering,  Landor  replies:  "Yet  he  was  more  original  than 
his  originals.  He  breathed  upon  dead  bodies,  and  brought 
them  into  life."  It  has  been  said  of  Pope  that,  whatever  jewel 
he  appropriated,  he  set  it  in  gold.  Perhaps  the  best  definition 
of  legitimate  appropriation  was  given  by  Hegel,  when  Cousin 
was  accused  of  stealing  his  ideas.  "  Cousin,"  said  he,  "  has 
caught  some  small  fishes  in  my  pond,  but  he  has  drowned  them 
in  his  own  sauce."  This  was  quite  different  from  the  case  of  a 
patchwork  essay  read  by  a  Mr.  Fish,  of  which  an  old  lady  com- 
plained that  it  was  "so  full  of  pollywogs  that  she  couldn't  see 
the  Fish." 

The    most    original    thinkers    have    been    most    ready   to 

acknowledge  their  obligations    to  other  minds,  whose  wisdom 

has  been  hived  in  books.     Gibbon  acquired  from 

Great  Men  Have    j^j^  ^^^^  cc^^  ^^^ly  and  invincible  love  of  read- 

Owed  Their  Success    .  i  •    i    >.    i         j      i         j      .r  i  ij 

to  Reading.  ^"g»  which,  he  declared,  he  would  not  ex- 
change for  the  treasures  of  India."  Dr.  Franklin 
traced  his  entire  career  to  Cotton  Mather's  "Essays  to  do 
Good,"  which  fell  into  his  hands  when  he  was  a  boy.  The 
current  of  Jeremy  Bentham's  thoughts  was  directed  for  life  by 
a  single  phrase,  "The  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number," 
caught  at  the  end  of  a  pamphlet.  Cobbett,  at  eleven,  bought 
Swift's  "Tale  of  a  Tub,"  and  it  proved  what  he  considered  a 
sort  of  "birth  of  intellect." 

The  genius  of  Faraday  was  fired  by  the  volumes  which  he 
perused  while  serving  as  an  apprentice  to  an  English  book- 
seller. One  of  the  most  distinguished  personages  in  Europe, 
showing  his  library  to  a  visitor,  observed  that  not  only  this  col- 
ledtion,  but  all  his  social  successes  in  life,  he  traced  back  to  the 
first  franc  from  the  cake-shop  to  spend  at  a  bookstall.  Lord 
Macaulay,  having  asked  an  eminent  soldier  and  diplomatist, who 
enjoyed  the  confidence  of  the  first  generals  and  statesmen  of  the 
age,  to  what  he  owed  his  accomplishments,  was  informed  that 
he   ascribed    it  to  the   fadl  that   he  was   quartered  in   his  young 

202 


BOOK-SHELF 


days  in  the  neighborhood  of  an  excellent  library,  to  which  he 
had  access.  The  French  historian  Michelet  attributed  his 
mental  inspiration  to  a  single  book,  a  Virgil,  he  lived  with  for 
some  years;  and  he  tells  us  that  an  odd  volume  of  Racine, 
picked  up  at  a  stall  on  the  quay,  made  the  poet  of  Toulon. 

^^If  the  riches  of  both  Indies,"  said  Fenelon,  "if  the 
crowns  of  all  the  kingdoms  of  Europe  were  laid  at  my  feet,  in 
exchange  for  my  love  of  reading,  I  would  spurn  them  all." 
Books  not  only  enrich  and  enlarge  the  mind,  but  they  stimu- 
late, inflame,  and  concentrate  its  activity;  and  though  without 
this  reception  of  foreign  influence  a  man  may  be  odd,  he  cannot 
be  original.  The  greatest  genius  is  he  who  consumes  the  most 
knowledge  and  converts  it  into  mind.  What,  indeed,  is  college 
education  but  the  reading  of  certain  books  which  the  common 
sense  of  all  scholars  agrees  will  represent  the  science  already 
accumulated? 


203 


MY      FAVORITE 


MONTAIGNE. 


Our  religion  hath  had  no  surer  humane  foundation   than 

the  contempt  of  life.     Discourse  of  reason  doth  not  only  call 

and  summon  us  unto  it.      For  why  should  we 

Contempt  of  Life     ^^^^^  ^^  j^^^  ^  ^j^j^^      s^Kich,  being  lost,  cannot 

a  dure  rounaattori     .  ,  -,     r»  i  •  i  i  i 

for  Religion.  bemoaned.'^  But  also,  smce  we  are  threatned  by 
so  many  kinds  of  death,  there  is  no  more  incon- 
venience to  feare  them  all,  than  to  endure  one:  what  matter  is 
it  when  it  cometh,  since  it  is  unavoidable?  Socrates  answered 
one  that  told  him:  The  thirty  tyrants  have  condemned  thee  to 
death.  And  Nature  them,  said  he.  What  fondnesse  is  it  to 
carke  and  care  so  much,  at  that  instant  and  passage  from  all 
paine  and  care?  As  our  birth  brought  us  the  birth  of  all  things, 
so  shall  our  death  the  end  of  all  things.  Therefore  is  it  as 
great  follie  to  weepe,  we  shall  not  live  a  hundred  yeeres  hence, 
so  to  waile  we  lived  not  a  hundred  yeeres  ago.  Death  is  the 
beginning  of  another  life.  So  wept  we,  and  so  much  did  it  cost 
us  to  enter  into  this  life;  and  so  did  we  spoile  us  of  our  ancient 
vaile  in  entring  into  it.  Nothing  can  be  grievous  that  is  but 
once.  Is  it  reason  so  long  to  feare  a  thing  of  so  short  time? 
Long  life  or  short  life  is  made  all  one  by  death.  For  long  or 
short  is  not  in  things  that  are  no  more.  Aristotle  saith,  there 
are  certaine  litle  beastes  alongst  the  river  Hyspanis  that  live  but 
one  day;  she  which  dies  at  eight  a  clocke  in  the  morning,  dies 
in  her  youth;  and  she  that  dies  at  five  in  the  afternoon,  dies  in 
her  decrepitude;  who  of  us  doth  not  laugh,  when  we  shall  see 
this  short  moment  of  continuance  to  be  had  in  consideration  of 
good  or  ill  fortune?  The  most  and  the  least  in  ours,  if  we 
compare  it  with  eternitie,  or  equall  it  to  the  lasting  of  mountaines, 
rivers,  stars  and  trees,  or  any  other  living  creature,  is  no  lesse 
ridiculous.  But  nature  compels  us  to  it.  Depart  (saith  she) 
out  of  this  world,  even  as  you  came  into  it.     The  same  way  you 

204 


BOOK-SHELF 


came  from  death  to  life,  returne  without  passion  or  amazement 
from  life  to  death ;  your  death  is  but  a  peece  of  the  world's 
order,  and  but  a  parcell  of  the  world's  life.  All  the  time  you 
live,  you  steale  it  from  death  :  it  is  at  her  charge.  The  con- 
tinuall  worke  of  your  life  is  to  contrive  death ;  you  are  in  death 
during  the  time  you  continue  in  life;  for,  you  are  after  death, 
when  you  are  no  longer  living.  Or  if  you  would  rather  have 
it  so,  you  are  dead  after  life;  but  during  life  you  are  still  dying; 
and  death  doth  more  rudely  touch  the  dying  than  the  dead,  and 
more  lively  and  essentially.  If  you  have  profited  by  life,  you 
have  also  beene  fed  thereby,  depart  then  satisfied.  If  you  have 
not  knowne  how  to  make  use  of  it,  if  it  were  unprofitable  to 
you,  what  need  you  care  to  have  lost  it?  To  what  end  would 
you  enjoy  it  longer? 

Wherefore  doe  Physitians  labour  and  pradiise  before  hand 
the  conceit  and  credence  of  their  patients,  with 
so  many  false  promises  of  their  recoverie  and         Suggestive 
health,  unlesse  it  be  that  the  effect  of  imagina-       Therapeutics. 
tion    may  supple    and    prepare    the    imposture 
of  their  deco6lion. 

There  are  certaine  barren  and  thornie  sciences,  which  for 
the  most  part  are  forged  for  the  multitude;  they  should  be  left 
for  those  who  are  for  the  service  of  the  world.  As  for  my- 
selfe,  I  love  no  books  but  such  as  are  pleasant  and  easie,  and 
which  tickle  me,  or  such  as  comfort  and  counsell  me,  to  dired: 
my  life  and  death. 

If  Physitians  doe  no  other  good,  at  least  they   doe   this, 
that  betimes  they   prepare   their  patients  unto  death,  by  little 
undermining    and    cutting-off    the   use   of  life. 
Both  in  health  and  in  sicknesse,  I  have  willingly    Are°"iVor!l^^Than 
seconded  and  given  myselfe  over  to  those  appe-        ^^^  Disease. 
tites  that  pressed  me.      I   allow  great  authority 
to  my  desires  and  propensions.     I  love  not  to  cure  one  evill  by 

205 


MY      FAVORITE 


another  mischiefe.  I  hate  those  remedies  that  importune  more 
than  sicknesse.  To  be  subjedl  to  the  cholike,  and  to  be  tied  to 
abstaine  from  the  pleasure  I  have  in  eating  oysters,  are  two  mis- 
chiefes  for  one.  The  disease  pincheth  us  on  the  one  side  and  the 
rule  on  the  other.  Since  we  are  ever  in  danger  to  misdoe,  let 
us  rather  hazard  ourselves  to  follow  pleasure.  Most  men  doe 
contrary  and  thinke  nothing  profitable  that  is  not  painfull: 
Facility  is  by  them  suspeded.  Mine  appetite  hath  in  divers 
things  very  happily  accommodated  and  ranged  itselfe  to  the 
health  of  my  stomake.  Being  young,  acrimony  and  tartnesse 
in  sawces  did  greatly  delight  me,  but  my  stomake  being  since 
glutted  therewith,  my  taste  hath  likewise  seconded  the  same. 
Wine  hurts  the  sicke;  it  is  the  first  thing  that,  with  an  invincible 
distaste,  brings  my  mouth  out  of  taste.  Whatsoever  I  receive 
unwillingly  or  distastefully  hurts  me,  whereas  nothing  doth  it 
whereon  I  feed  with  hunger  and  rellish.  I  never  received  harm 
by  any  adion  that  was  very  pleasing  unto  me.  And  yet  I  have 
made  all  medicinall  conclusions  largely  to  yeeld  to  my  pleasures. 
And  when  I  was  yong,  I  have  as  licentiously  and  inconsider- 
ately as  any  other,  furthered  al  such  desires  as  possessed  me: 

A  Souldier  of  Love's  hoast, 

I  was  not  without  boast. 

It  is  surely  a  wonder,  accompanied  with  unhappinesse,  to  con- 
fesse  how  yong  and  weake  I  was  brought  under  its  subjection. 
Nay,  shall  I  not  blush  to  tell  it?  It  was  long  before  the  age  of 
choise  or  yeeres  of  discretion;  I  was  so  yong,  as  I  remember 
nothing  before. 

Physitians   commonly   enfold   and  joyne  their  rules  unto 

profit,   according   to   the   violence  of  sharpe   desires  or  earnest 

longings,  that  incidently  follow  the  sicke.      No 

Defend^Mt From    'o"g'ng  desire  can   be  imagined  so  strange  and 

Myielf.'"  vicious,    but    nature    will    apply    herselfe    unto 

it.     And  then  how  easie  is  it  to   content  one's 

fantasie?     In  mine  opinion  this  part  importeth  all  in  all;  at  least 

more  and  beyond  all  other.     The  most  grievous  and  ordinary 

206 


BOOK-SHELF 


evills  are  those  which  fancy  chargeth  us  withall.  That  Spanish 
saying  doth  every  way  please  me :  "  God  defend  me  from  my- 
selfe."  Being  sicke,  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  some  desire  may 
give  me  the  contentment  to  satiate  and  cloy  the  same:  Scarsly 
would  a  medicine  divert  me  from  it.  So  doe  I  when  I  am  in 
health;  I  hardly  see  anything  left  to  be  hoped  or  wished  for. 
It  is  pitty  a  man  should  bee  so  weakned  and  enlanguished  that 
he  hath  nothing  left  him  but  wishing.  The  art  of  physicke  is 
not  so  resolute,  that  whatever  wee  doe  we  shall  be  void  of  all 
authority  to  doe  it.  Shee  changeth  and  shee  varieth  according 
to  climats;  according  to  the  moones. 

If  your  Physitian  think  it  not  good  that  you  sleepe,  that 
you  drinke  wine,  or  eate  such  and  such  meates,  care  not  you  for 
that;   I  shall  finde  you  another  that  shall  not  be  of  his  opinion. 

The  diversity  of  physicall  arguments  and  medicinall  opin- 
ions embraceth  all  manner  of  formes.  I  saw  a  miserable  sicke 
man,  for  the  infinite  desire  he  had  to  recover,  ready  to  burst, 
yea,  and  to  die  with  thirst;  whom  not  long  since  another  Phy- 
sitian mocked,  utterly  condemning  the  other's  counsell  as  hurtfull 
for  him. 

A  man  must  give  sicknesses  their  passage;  and  I  finde  that 
they  stay  least  with  me,  because  I  allow  them  their  swinge,  and 
let  them  doe  what  they  list.  And  contrary  to  common  received 
rules,  I  have  without  ayd,  or  art,  ridde  myselfe  of  some,  that  are 
deemed  the  most  obstinately  lingring  and  unremoovably  obstin- 
ate. Let  Nature  worke.  Let  hir  have  hir  will :  She  knoweth 
what  she  hath  to  doe,  and  understands  hir  selfe  better  than  we  doe. 

Life  is  in  itself  neither  a  good  nor  an  evil;  it  is  the  theatre 
of  good  or  evil  as  you   make  it.     And  if  you   have  lived  one 
day  you  have  seen  all ;  one  day  is  the  same  and 
like  to  all  days.     There  is  no   other  light,  no         Life  What 
other  darkness;  this  very  sun,  this  very  moon,       '^"'^  Make  It. 
these  very  stars,  this  very  order  and  revolution 
of  the  universe,  is  the  same  which  your  ancestors  enjoyed,  and 
which  will  be  the  admiration  of  your  posterity. 

207 


MY      FAVORITE 


O  U  I  DA. 


"A  young  man  married  is  a  man  that's  marred."  That's 
a  golden  rule;  take  it    to   heart.     Anne   Hathaway,  I   have  not 

a  doubt,  suggested   it:    experience   is   the   sole 

^  asbestos,   only    unluckily    one    seldom    gets    it 

Anne  Hathaway      before    one's    hands     are     burned    irrevocably. 

Shakespeare  took  to  wife  the  ignorant,  rosy- 
cheeked  Warwickshire  peasant  girl  at  eighteen!  Poor  fellow! 
I  picture  him,  with  all  his  untried  powers,  struggling  like  new- 
born Hercules  for  strength  and  utterance,  and  the  great  germ  of 
poetry  within  him,  tingeing  all  the  common  realities  of  life  with 
its  rose  hue;  genius  giving  him  power  to  see  with  godlike 
vision  the  "fairies  nestling  in  the  cowslip  chalices"  and  the 
golden  gleam  of  Cleopatra's  sails;  to  feel  the  "spiced  Indian 
air"  by  night,  and  the  wild  working  of  kings  ambitious  lust; 
to  know  by  intuition,  alike  the  voices  of  nature  unheard  by 
common  ears,  and  the  fierce  schemes  and  passions  of  a  world 
from  which  social  position  shut  him  out!  I  pidure  him  in  his 
hot,  imaginative  youth,  finding  his  first  love  in  the  yeoman's 
daughter  at  Shottery,  strolling  with  her  by  the  Avon,  making 
her  an  "odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds,"  and  dressing 
her  up  in  the  fond  array  of  a  boy's  poetic  imaginings!  Then  — 
when  he  had  married  her,  he,  with  the  passionate  ideals  of  Juliets 
and  Violas,  Ophelias  and  Hermiones,  in  his  brain  and  heart, 
must  have  awakened  to  find  that  the  voices  so  sweet  to  him 
were  dumb  to  her.  The  "cinque  spotted  cowslip  bells"  brought 
only  thoughts  of  wine  to  her.  When  he  was  watching  "certain 
stars  shoot  madly  from  their  spheres"  she  most  likely  was 
grumbling  at  him  for  mooning  there  after  curfew  bell.  When 
he  was  learning  Nature's  lore  in  "the  fresh  cup  of  the  crimson 
rose,"  she  was  dinning  in  his  ear  that  Hammet  and  Judith 
wanted  worsted  socks.      When  he  was  listening  in  fancy  to  the 

208 


BOOK-SHELF 


"sea-maid's  song,"  and  weaving  thoughts  which  a  world  still 
stands  reverentially  to  listen,  she  was  buzzing  behind  him,  and 
bidding  him  go  card  the  wool,  and  weeping  that,  in  her  girlhood, 
she  had  not  chosen  some  rich  glover  or  ale-taster,  instead  of 
idle,  useless,  wayward  Willie  Shakespeare.  Poor  fellow!  He 
did  not  write,  I  would  swear,  without  fellow-feeling,  and  yearn- 
ing over  souls  similarly  shipwrecked,  that  wise  saw:  "A  young 
man  married  is  a  man  that's  marred."        Held  in   Bondage. 

The  uneducated  are   perhaps  unjustly  judged  sometimes. 
To  the  ignorant  both  right  and  wrong  are  only  instincts;  when 
one  remembers  their  piteous  and  innocent  con- 
fusion of  ideas,  the  twilight  of  dim  comprehen-    „.  ,    ^'^J°^'  ^ 

,  .   ,      ,  ,       ,,    °        r     1       1  r         •  Rich  and  a  Law  for 

sion  m  which  they  dwell,  one  reels  that  ortentimes  ^;^^  p^^^^ 

the  laws  of  cultured  men  are  too  hard   on  them, 
and  that,  in  a  better  sense  than  that  of  injustice  and  reproach, 
there  ought  indeed  to  be  two  laws  for  rich  and  poor. 

In  Maremma. 

A  woman  who  is  ice  to   his  fire,  is  less  pain  to  a  man  than 
the  woman  who  is  fire  to  his  ice.     There  is  hope 
for  him  in  the  one,  but  only  a  dreary  despair  in      ,  ..... 

,  ,  rr^.  ,  ,•'       .  /  i  .        .  Ificompatibtltty. 

the  other.  1  he  ardours  that  mtoxicate  him  in 
the  first  summer  of  his  passion  serve  but  to  dull 
and  chili  him  in  the  later  time.  Friendship. 

A  man  cast  forth  from  his  home  is  like  a  ship  cut  loose 
from  its  anchor  and  rudderless.     Whatever  may  have  been  his 
weakness,  his  off^ences,  they  cannot  absolve  you 
from  your  duty  to  watch  over  your  husband's  Conjugal 

soul,  to  be  his  first  and  most  faithful  friend,  to        Obligations. 
stand    between    him    and    his   temptations   and 
perils.     That  is  the  nobler  side  of  marriage.     When  the  light 
of  love  is  faded  and  its  joys  are  over,  its  duties  and  its  mercies 
remain.      Because  one  of  the  twain   has  failed  in  these  the  other 
is  not  acquitted  of  obligation.  Wanda. 

209 


MY      FAVORITE 


Marriage,  as  our  world  sees  it,  is  simply  a  convenience;  a 
somewhat  clumsy  contrivance  to  tide  over  a  social  difficulty. 

Moths. 

There  is  a  chord  in  every  human  heart  that  has  a  sigh 
in  it  if  touched  aright.  When  the  artist  finds  the  key-note 
which  that  chord  will  answer  to  —  in  the  dullest  as  in  the 
highest  —  then  he  is  great.  Signa. 

The  desire  to  be  "great"  possessed  her.     When  that  insa- 
tiate passion  enters  a  living  soul,  be  it  the  soul  of  a  woman-child 
dreaming  of  a  coquette's  conquests,  or  a  crowned 
The  Canker  in      hero   craving  for  a  new  world,  it  becomes  blind 
the  Crown.         to  all  else.     Moral  death  falls  on  it;  and  any  sin 
looks  sweet  that  takes  it  nearer  to  its  goal.     It 
is  a  passion   that  generates  at  once  all  the   loftiest   and   all   the 
vilest    things,  which    between    them  ennoble    and    corrupt  the 
world  —  even  as  heat  generates  at  once  the  harvest  and  the  mag- 
got, the  purpling  vine  and  the  lice  that  devour  it.      It  is  a  pas- 
sion without  which   the  world  would  decay  in  darkness,  as  it 
would  do  without  heat,  yet  to  which,  as  to  heat,  all  its  filthiest 
corruption  is  due.  Tricotrin. 

No  matter!  he  must  have  race  in  him.      Heraldry  may  lie; 

but  voices  do   not.      Low  people   make   money,  drive   in  state, 

throng  to  palaces,  receive  kings  at  their  tables 

n/    ,  irrn  n- n     bv   the    forcc    of  gold ;     but    their    antecedents 
Blood  Will  Tell.       /  ,  9       '  .  ^,  .  , 

always  croak   out  m   their  voices.      1  hey  either 

screech  or  purr;  they  have  no  clear  modulations; 

besides,  their  women  always  stumble  over  their  train,  and  their 

men  bow  worse  than  their  servants.  Tricotrin. 

The  man  who  puts  chains  on  another's  limbs  is  only  one 
shade  worse  than  he  who  puts  fetters  on  another's  free  thoughts 
and  on  another's  free  conscience.  Chandos. 


2IO 


BOOK-SHELF 


God  must  be  deaf,  or  very  cruel.  Look;  everything  lives 
in  pain;  and  yet  no  God  pities  and  makes  an  end  of  the  earth. 
I  would,  if  I  were  He.  Look  —  at  dawn,  the 
other  day,  I  was  out  in  the  wood.  I  came  upon  t  a  d  Cr  I? 
a  little  rabbit  in  a  trap;  a  little,  pretty,  soft 
black-and-white  thing,  quite  young.  It  was 
screaming  in  its  horrible  misery;  it  had  been  screaming  all  night. 
Its  thighs  were  broken  in  the  iron  teeth;  the  trap  held  it  tight; 
it  could  not  escape,  it  could  only  scream  —  scream  —  scream. 
All  in  vain.  When  I  had  set  it  free  it  was  mangled  as  if  a  wolf 
had  gnawed  it;  the  iron  teeth  had  bitten  through  the  fur,  and 
the  flesh,  and  the  bone;  it  had  lost  so  much  blood,  and  it  was 
in  so  much  pain,  that  it  could  not  live.  I  laid  it  down  in  the 
bracken  and  put  water  to  its  mouth,  and  did  what  I  could;  but 
it  was  of  no  use.  It  had  been  too  much  hurt.  It  died  as  the 
sun  rose;  a  little,  harmless,  shy,  happy  thing,  you  know,  that 
never  killed  any  creature,  and  only  asked  to  nibble  a  leaf  or  two, 
or  sleep  in  a  little  round  hole,  and  run  about  merry  and  free. 
How  can  one  care  for  a  God  since  He  lets  these  things  be? 
Men  care  for  a  God  only  as  a  God  means  a  good  to  them. 
Men  are  heirs  of  heaven,  they  say;  and  in  right  of  their  herit- 
age, they  make  life  hell  to  every  living  thing  that  dares  dispute 
the  world  with  them.  You  do  not  understand  that, —  tut!  You 
are  not  human  then.  If  you  were  human,  you  would  begrudge 
a  blade  of  grass  to  a  rabbit,  and  arrogate  to  yourself  a  lease  of 
immortality.  Folle-Farine. 

I   have  heard  a  very  great  many  men  and  women  call  the 
crows  carrion  birds,  and  the  jackals  carrion  beasts,  with  an  infi- 
nite deal  of  disgust  and  much    fine  horror  at 
what   they  were   pleased   to  term   "  feasting  on       Chacun  a  Son 
corpses,"  but  I   never  yet  heard  any  of  them  Gout. 

admit  their  own  appetite  for  the  rotten  "corpse" 
of  a  pheasant,  or  the   putrid   haunch  of  a  deer,  to   be  anything 
except  the  choice  taste  of  an  epicure.  Puck. 


21  I 


MY      FAVORITE 

PASCAL. 


How  comes  it  that  this  man  who  lost  a  son  only  a  few 

months   ago,  and   is  worried   by  lawsuits  and  petty  squabbles, 

seemed    this    morning    the    victim    of   despair, 

Fortune  Enables     gho^ld  SO  soon  have  forgotten  all  his  sorrows? 

One  to  Ltve  a  Life    „  .       ,       ,  .       °.      ,    .  . 

of  Pleasure.  "^  "°^  surprised;  his  mind  is  at  present  ab- 
sorbed in  watching  a  boar  which  his  dogs  have 
been  pursuing  for  the  last  six  hours.  Nothing  more  is  needed. 
Man,  however  disconsolate,  if  he  can  be  drawn  into  amuse- 
ment, behold  him  happy  for  the  moment!  And  man,  however 
happy,  if  his  mind  be  not  diverted  and  filled  with  some  passion 
or  amusement  that  may  drive  away  ennui,  will  soon  fall  a  vidim 
to  vexation  and  discontent.  And  what  contributes  chiefly  to 
the  happiness  of  the  great,  is  that  they  are  surrounded  by  many 
who  assist  them  to  drive  care  away,  and  that  their  fortune 
enables  them  to  lead  a  life  of  pleasure. 

Let    them    not    say  that    I    have   said    nothing   new;    the 
arrangement  of  the  materials  is  new.     When  they  play  tennis, 
it   is  the  same  ball  with  which  they  both   play, 
N     f       nu      ^^^    ^"^^    directs    it    better    than   the   other.     I 
might  just  as  well  be  told  that  I  had  made  use 
of  old  words.     The  same  thoughts  by  a  differ- 
ent arrangement  form   quite  a  different  work,  so   also  the  same 
words  by  the  difference  of  their  arrangement  form  other  thoughts. 

There  is  nothing  so  insupportable  to  man  as  to  be  in  entire 

repose,  without  passion,  occupation,  amusement. 

Entire  Repose       OX  application.     Then  it  is  that  he  feels  his  own 

Insupportable.       nothingness,  isolation,  insignificance,  dependent 

nature,  powerlessness,  emptiness.      Immediately 

there  issue  from  his  soul  ennui,  sadness,  chagrin,  vexation,  despair. 

21  2 


BOOK-SHELF 


W.     C.    PRIME. 


Why  Peter  Went  A -Fishing.  The  light  of  the  long 
Galilee  day  was  dying  out  beyond  the  peaks  of  Lebanon.  Far 
in  the  north,  gleaming  like  a  star,  the  snowy 
summit  of  Hermon  received  the  latest  ray  of  Simon  Peter  as 
the  twilight  before  gloom  and  night  should  ^"  Angler. 
descend  on  Gennesaret.  The  white  walls  of 
Bethsaida  shone  gray  and  cold  on  the  northern  border  of  the 
sea,  looking  to  the  whiter  palace  of  Herod  at  its  farther  extrem- 
ity, under  whose  very  base  began  the  majestic  sweep  of  the 
Jordan.  Perhaps  the  full  moon  was  rising  over  the  desolate 
hills  of  the  Gadarenes,  marking  the  silver  pathway  of  the  Lord 
across  the  holy  sea.  The  stars  that  had  glorified  His  birth  in 
the  Bethlehem  cavern,  that  had  shone  on  the  garden  agony  and 
the  garden  tomb,  were  shining  on  the  hillsides  that  had  been 
sandified  by  His  footsteps.  The  young  daughter  of  Jairus 
looked  from  her  casement  in  Capernaum  on  the  silver  lake,  and 
remembered  the  solemn  grandeur  of  that  brow,  which  now,  they 
told  her,  had  been  torn  with  thorns.  The  son  of  her  of  Nain 
climbed  the  rocks  which  tower  above  his  father's  place  of  burial, 
and  gazed  down  into  the  shining  water,  and  pondered  whether 
He  who  had  been  murdered  by  the  Jerusalem  Hebrews  had  not 
power  to  say  unto  himself  "Arise!" 

Never  was  night  more  pure,  never  was  sea  more  winning; 
never  were  the  hearts  of  men  moved  by  deeper  emotions  than 
on  that  night  and  by  that  sea  when  Peter  and  John,  and  other 
of  the  disciples,  were  waiting  for  the  Master. 

Peter  said,  "  I  go  a-fishing."  John  and  Thomas,  and 
James  and  Nathanael,  and  the  others,  said,  "We  will  go  with 
you,"  and  they  went. 

Fishermen  never  lose  their  love  for  the  employment.  And 
it  is  notably  true  that  the  men  who  fish  for  a  living  love  their 


213 


MY      FAVORITE 


work  quite  as  much  as  those  who  fish  for  pleasure  love  their 
sport.  Find  an  old  fisherman,  if  you  can,  in  any  seashore  town, 
who  does  not  enjoy  his  fishing.  There  are  days, 
Patience  of  without  doubt,  when  he  does  not  care  to  go  out, 
the  Angler.  when  he  would  rather  that  need  did  not  drive 
him  to  the  sea;  but  keep  him  at  home  a  few 
days,  or  set  him  at  other  labor,  and  you  shall  see  that  he  longs 
for  the  toss  of  the  swell  on  the  reef,  and  the  sudden  joy  of  a 
strong  pull  on  his  line.  Drift  up  alongside  of  him  in  your  boat 
when  he  is  quietly  at  his  work,  without  his  knowing  that  you 
are  near.  You  can  do  it  easily.  He  is  pondering  solemnly  a 
question  of  deep  importance  to  him,  and  he  has  not  stirred  eye, 
or  hand,  or  head  for  ten  minutes.  But  see  that  start  and  sharp 
jerk  of  his  elbow,  and  now  hear  him  talk,  not  to  you  —  to  the 
fish.  He  exults  as  he  brings  him  in,  yet  mingles  his  exultation 
with  something  of  pity  as  he  baits  his  hook  for  another.  Could 
you  gather  the  words  that  he  has  in  many  years  flung  on  the 
sea-winds,  you  would  have  a  history  of  his  life  and  adventures, 
mingled  with  very  much  of  his  inmost  thinking,  for  he  tells 
much  to  the  sea  and  the  fish  that  he  would  never  whisper  in 
human  ears.  Thus  the  habit  of  going  a-fishing  always  modifies 
the  character.  The  angler,  I  think,  dreams  of  his  favorite  sport 
oftener  than  other  men  of  theirs.  There  is  a  peculiar  excite- 
ment in  it,  which  perhaps  arises  from  somewhat  of  the  same 
causes  which  make  the  interest  in  searching  for  ancient  treasures, 
opening  Egyptian  tombs,  and  digging  into  old  ruins.  One  does 
not  know  what  is  under  the  surface.  There  may  be  something, 
or  there  may  be  nothing.  He  tries,  and  the  rush  of  something 
startles  every  nerve.  Let  no  man  laugh  at  a  comparison  of 
trout-fishing  with  antiquarian  researches.  1  know  a  man  who 
has  done  a  great  deal  of  both,  and  who  scarcely  knows  which 
is  most  absorbing  or  most  remunerating;  for  each  enriches 
mind  and  body,  each  gratifies  the  most  refined  tastes,  each 
becomes  a  passion  unless  the  pursuer  guard  his  enthusiasm  and 
moderate  his  desires. 

Trout-fishing  is  employment  for  all  men,  of  all  minds.     It 

214 


BOOK-SHELF 


tends  to  dreamy  life,  and  it  leads  to  much  thought  and  refledion. 
I  do  not  know  in  any  book  or  story  of  modern  times  a  more 
touching  and  exquisite  scene  than  that  which  Mrs.  Gordon  gives 
in  her  admirable  biography  of  her  father,  the  leonine  Christo- 
pher North,  when  the  feeble  old  man  waved  his  rod  for  the  last 
time  over  the  Dochart,  where  he  had  taken  trout  from  his  boy- 
hood. Shall  we  ever  look  upon  his  like  again. -^  He  was  a 
giant  among  men  of  intelledual  greatness.  Of  all  anglers  since 
apostolic  days,  he  was  the  greatest;  and  there  is  no  angler  who 
does  not  look  to  him  with  veneration  and  love,  while  the  English 
language  will  forever  possess  higher  value  that  he  has  lived  and 
written.  It  would  be  thought  very  strange  were  one  to  say  that 
Wilson  would  have  never  been  half  the  man  he  was  were  he  not 
an  angler.  But  he  would  have  said  so  himself,  and  I  am  not 
sure  but  he  did  say  so,  and,  whether  he  did  or 

not,  I  have  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  saying.    _,  .      ,     .,     , 
'ti         1  1  riiT^i  Lnrtstopner  North. 

It  has  happened  to  me  to  nsh  the  Uochart 

from  the  old  inn  at  Luib  down  to  the  bridge, 
and  the  form  of  the  great  Christopher  was  forever  before  me 
along  the  bank  and  in  the   rapids,  making  his  last  casts  as  Mrs. 
Gordon  here  so  tenderly  describes  him : 

"  Had  my  father   been  able  to  endure   the  fatigue,  we  too 
would  have  had  something  to  boast  of;  but  he  was  unable  to  do 
more  than  loiter  by  the  riverside  close  in  the 
neighborhood  of   the   inn  —  never  without   his      rh   L   t  c  t 
rod.     *     *     *      How   now   do   his  feet   touch 
the   heather?     Not  as  of  old  with  a  bound,  but 
with  slow  and  unsteady  step,  supported  on  the  one  hand  by  his 
stick,  while  the  other  carries  his  rod.     The  breeze  gently  moves 
his  locks,  no  longer  glittering  with  the  light  of  life,  but  dimmed 
by  its  decay.     Yet  are  his  shoulders  broad  and  unbent.     The 
lionlike    presence  is   somewhat  softened   down,  but   not   gone. 
He  surely  will  not  venture  into  the  deeps  of  the  water,  for  only 
one  hand  is  free  for  'a  cast,'  and  those  large  stones,  now  slip- 
pery  with  moss,  are   dangerous   stumbling-blocks  in  the  way. 
Besides,  he  promised  his  daughters  he  would  not  wade,  but,  on 

215 


MY      FAVORITE 


the  contrary,  walk  quietly  with  them  by  the  river's  edge,  there 
gliding  *at  its  own  sweet  will.'  Silvery  bands  of  pebbled 
shore,  leading  to  loamy-colored  pools,  dark  as  the  glow  of  a 
southern  eye,  how  could  he  resist  the  temptation  of  near 
approach?  In  he  goes,  up  to  the  ankles,  then  to  the  knees, 
tottering  every  other  step,  but  never  falling.  Trout  after  trout 
he  catches,  small  ones,  certainly,  but  plenty  of  them.  Into  his 
pocket  with  them,  all  this  time  manoeuvering  in  the  most  skillful 
manner,  both  stick  and  rod:  until  weary,  he  is  obliged  to  rest 
on  the  bank,  sitting  with  his  feet  in  the  water,  laughing  at  his 
daughters'  horror,  and  obstinately  continuing  the  sport  in  spite 
of  all  remonstrance.  At  last  he  gives  in  and  retires.  Wonder- 
ful to  say,  he  did  not  seem  to  suffer  from  these  imprudent 
liberties." 

And  Mrs.  Gordon  gives  us  another  exquisite  pidlure  in  the 
very  last  days  of  the  grand  old  Christopher: 

"And    then    he    gathered    around    him,  when    the   spring 
mornings   brought   gay  jets   of  sunshine   into   the   little   room 
where  he  lay,  the  relics  of  a  youthful  passion, 
His  Farewell  to     one  that  with  him  never  grew  old.     It  was  an 
the  Flies.  affecting  sight  to  see  him  busy,  nay,  quite  ab- 

sorbed, with  the  fishing  tackle  scattered  about 
his  bed,  propped  up  with  pillows — his  noble  head,  yet  glorious 
with  its  flowing  locks,  carefully  combed  by  attentive  hands,  and 
falling  on  each  side  of  his  unfaded  face.  How  neatly  he  picked 
out  each  elegantly  dressed  fly  from  its  little  bunch,  drawing  it 
out  with  trembling  hand  along  the  white  coverlet,  and  then, 
replacing  it  in  his  pocket-book,  he  would  tell  ever  and  anon 
of  the  streams  he  used  to  fish  in  of  old,  and  of  the  deeds  he 
had  performed  in  his  childhood  and  youth." 

There  is  no  angler  who  will  not  appreciate  the  beauty  of 
these  pictures,  and  I  do  not  believe  any  one  of  us,  retaining  his 
mental  faculties,  will  fail  in  extremest  age  to  recall  with  the 
keenest  enjoyment  of  which  memory  is  capable,  the  scenes  of 
our  happiest  sport. 


2i6 


BOOK-SHELF 


ROUSSEAU 


Towns  are  the  sink  of  the  human  race.  At  the  end 
of  some  generations  races  perish  or  degenerate;  it  is  necessary 
to  renew  them,  and  it  is  always  the  country  which  furnishes 
this  renewal. 

I   have   derived   from    the   condu(^t  of   my  father   a   great 
moral  maxim,  the  only  one  perhaps  of  practical  use  in  life,  that 
we  should  avoid  placing  ourselves  in  situations 
where   duties   are    found   in   opposition   to   our    ^        .'^^ '"  ^ 

J       ,  ,       ,  r  .    ,  ,  .        opposition  to  Our 

mterests,  and  where  the  loss  or  our  neighbors  is  interests 

our  gain,  assured  of  this,  that  in  such  situations, 

however  sincere  our  love  of  virtue  may  be,  it  becomes,  sooner 

or  later,  imperceptibly  less  and  less,  and  we  become  unjust  or 

criminal  in  pradise,  without  ceasing  to  be  just  and  virtuous  in 

thought. 

The  tone  of  good  conversation  is  flowing  and  natural;    it 
is  neither  heavy  nor  frivolous;   it  is  learned  without  pedantry, 
lively  without  noise,  polished  without  equivoca- 
tion.    It  is   made   up   of   neither    lectures   nor        The  Art  of 
epigrams.     Those  who   really  converse,  reason        Conversation. 
without    arguing,    joke    without    punning,    are 
skillful   to  unite  wit  and  reason,  maxims  and  sallies,  ingenious 
raillery  and   severe   morality.     They  speak  of  everything  that 
every  one  may  have  something  to  say;   they  do  not  investigate 
too  closely,  for  fear  of  wearying;  questions  are  introduced  as  if 
by  the  by,  and  are  treated  with  rapidity;   precision  leads  to  ele- 
gance;   each   one   gives   his   opinion  and   supports  it  with  few 
words;  no  one  attacks  with  heat  another's  opinion;   no  one  sup- 
ports his  own  obstinately.     They  discuss   in   order  to   enlighten 
themselves,  and  leave  off  discussing  where  dispute  would  begin; 

217 


MY      FAVORITE 


every  one   gains   information;  every   one   amuses   himself,  and 

everv  one  goes  away  satisfied;  nay,  the  sage  himself  may  carry 

away  from  what  he  has  heard  matter  worthy  of  silent  medita- 
tion. 


2i8 


BOOK-SHELF 


R  U  S  K  I  N 


Has  not  the  man  who  has  worked  for  the  money  a  right 
to  use  it  as  best  he  can?  No;  in  this  respedt,  money  is  now 
exactly  what  mountain  promontories  over  public 
roads  were  in  old  times.  The  barons  fought  for  Bags,  Crags 
them  fairly :  the  strongest  and  cunningest  got  ^"<^  R^gi- 
them,  then  fortified  them,  and  made  every  one 
who  passed  below  pay  toll.  Well,  capital  now  is  exadly  what 
crags  were  then.  Men  fight  fairly  (we  will,  at  least,  grant  so 
much,  though  it  is  more  than  we  ought)  for  their  money ;  but, 
once  having  got  it,  the  fortified  millionaire  can  make  everybody 
who  passes  below  pay  toll  to  his  millions,  and  build  another  of 
his  money  castle.  And  I  can  tell  you,  the  poor  vagrants  by 
the  roadside  suffer  now  quite  as  much  from  the  bag-baron  as 
ever  they  did  from  the  crag-baron.  Bags  and  crags  have  just 
the  same  result  on  rags.  I  have  not  time,  however,  tonight  to 
show  you  in  how  many  ways  the  power  of  capital  is  unjust; 
but  this  one  great  principle  I  have  to  assert — you  will  find  it 
quite  indisputably  true — that  whenever  money  is  the  principal 
object  of  life  with  either  man  or  nation,  it  is  both  got  ill,  and 
spent  ill;  and  does  harm  both  in  the  getting  and  spending;  but 
when  it  is  not  the  principal  obje6l,  it  and  all  other  things  will  be 
well  got,  and  well  spent.  And  here  is  the  test,  with  every  man, 
of  whether  money  is  the  principal  objedl  with  him,  or  not.  If 
in  mid-life  he  could  pause  and  say,  "  Now  I  have  enough  to  live 
upon,  I'll  live  upon  it;  and  having  well  earned  it,  I  will  also 
well  spend  it,  and  go  out  of  the  world  poor,  as  I  came  into  it," 
then  money  is  not  principal  with  him;  but,  if  having  enough  to 
live  upon  in  the  manner  befitting  his  charader  and  rank,  he  still 
wants  to  make  more  and  to  die  rich,  then  money  is  the  principal 
objed  with  him,  and  it  becomes  a  curse  to  himself,  and  gen- 
erally to  those  who  spend  it  after  him.      For  you   know  it  must 

219 


MY      FAVORITE 


be  spent  some  day;  the  only  question  is  whether  the  man  who 
makes  it  shall  spend  it,  or  some  one  else.  And  generally  it  is 
better  for  the  maker  to  spend  it,  for  he  will  know  best  its  value 
and  use.  This  is  the  true  law  of  life.  And  if  a  man  does  not 
choose  thus  to  spend  his  money,  he  must  either  hoard  it  or  lend 
it,  and  the  worst  thing  he  can  generally  do  is  to  lend  it;  for  bor- 
rowers are  nearly  always  ill-spenders,  and  it  is  with  lent  money 
that  all  evil  is  mainly  done,  and  all  unjust  war  protracted. 

The  Crown  of  Wild  Olives. 

Everybody  in  this  room  has  been  taught  to  pray  daily, 
"Thy  kingdom  come."      Now,  if  we  hear  a  man  swear  in  the 

streets,  we    think   it   very   wrong,  and    say    he 

'*  Thy  Kingdom      "takes    God's   name   in   vain."      But   there's   a 

Come.''  twenty  times  worse  way  of  taking  His  name  in 

vain,  than  that.  It  is  to  ask  God  for  what  we 
dont  want.  He  doesn't  like  that  sort  of  prayer.  If  you  don't 
want  a  thing,  don't  ask  for  it:  such  asking  is  the  worst  mockery 
of  your  King  you  can  mock  Him  with;  the  soldiers  striking 
Him  on  the  head  with  the  reed  was  nothing  to  that.  If  you  do 
not  wish  for  His  kingdom,  don't  pray  for  it.  But  if  you  do, 
you  must  do  more  than  pray  for  it;  you  must  work  for  it. 
And  to  work  for  it,  you  must  know  what  it  is:  we  have  all 
prayed  for  it  many  a  day  without  thinking.  Observe,  it  is  a 
kingdom  that  is  to  come  to  us;  we  are  not  to  go  to  it.  Also, 
it  is  not  to  be  a  kingdom  of  the  dead,  but  of  the  living.  Also, 
it  is  not  to  come  all  at  once,  but  quietly;  nobody  knows  how. 
"The  kingdom  of  God  cometh  not  with  observation."  Also, 
it  is  not  to  come  outside  of  us,  but  in  the  hearts  of  us:  "the 
kingdom  of  God  is  within  you."  And,  being  within  us,  it  is 
not  a  thing  to  be  seen,  but  to  be  felt;  and  though  it  brings  all 
substance  of  good  with  it,  it  does  not  consist  in  that:  "the  king- 
dom of  God  is  not  meat  and  drink,  but  righteousness,  peace, 
and  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost":  joy,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  holy, 
healthful  and  helpful  Spirit.  Now  if  we  want  to  work  for  this 
kingdom,  and  to  bring  it  and  enter  into  it,  there's  just  one  con- 

220 


BOOK-SHELF 


dition  to  be  first  accepted.  You  must  enter  it  as  children,  or 
not  at  all.  "Whosoever  will  not  receive  it  as  a  little  child  shall 
not  enter  therein."  And  again,  "Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven."  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olives. 

The  true  instruments  of  reformation  are  employment  and 
reward,  not  punishment.     Aid  the  willing,  honor  the  virtuous, 
and  compel  the  idle  into  occupation,  and  there 
will  be  no  need  for  the  compelling  of  any  into    ^p^^'''°J'fJJ'f 
the  great  and  last  indolence  of  death.     The  be-       ^y^^  ^r  y^^^ 
ginning  of  all  true  reformation  among  the  crim- 
inal classes  depends  on  the  establishment  of  institutions  for  their 
adive  employment,  while  their  criminality  is  still  unripe,  and 
their  feelings  of  self-resped,  capacities  of  affedtion,  and  sense  of 
justice  not  altogether  quenched. 

That  those  who  are  desirous  of  employment  should  be 
always  able  to  find  it,  will  hardly,  at  the  present  day,  be  dis- 
puted; but  that  those  who  are  undesirous  of  employment  should 
of  all  persons  be  the  most  stridtly  compelled  to  it,  the  public 
are  hardly  yet  convinced. 

If  the  damage  of  the  principal  thoroughfares  in  their  cap- 
ital city,  and  the  multiplication  of  crimes  more  ghastly  than 
ever  yet  disgraced  a  nominal  civilization,  do  not  convince  them, 
they  will  not  have  to  wait  long  before  they  receive  sterner  les- 
sons. For  our  negled:  of  the  lower  orders  has  reached  a  point 
at  which  it  begins  to  bear  its  necessary  fruit,  and  every  day 
makes  the  harvest  darker  and  more  sure. 

The  great  principles  by  which  employment  should  be 
regulated  may  be  briefly  stated  as  follows: 

I.  There  being  three  great  classes  of  mechanical  powers 
at  our  disposal,  namely:  {a)  vital  muscular  power;  (^)  natural 
mechanical  power  of  wind,  water,  and  eled:ricity ;  and  (r)  arti- 
ficially produced  mechanical  power,  it  is  the  first  principle  of 
economy  to  use  all  available  vital  power  first,  then  the  Inexpen- 
sive natural  forces,  and  only  at  last  to  have  recourse  to  artificial 

221 


MY      FAVORITE 


E^i 


-•4-^3)  fffl  s  lai ^>—'^>-e'iai  a  ^afS-  r^^-Qlof  H  STA—eSi 


power.  And  this,  because  it  is  always  better  for  a  man  to  work 
with  his  own  hands  to  feed  and  clothe  himself,  than  to  stand 
idle  while  a  machine  works  for  him;  and  if  he  cannot  by  all  the 
labor  healthily  possible  to  him  feed  and  clothe  himself,  then  it 
is  better  to  use  an  inexpensive  machine  —  as  a  wind-mill  or 
water-mill,  than  a  costly  one  like  a  steam-engine,  so  long  as  we 
have  natural  force  enough  at  our  disposal. 

Whereas  at  present  we  continually  hear  economists  regret 
that  the  water-powers  of  the  cascades  or  streams  of  a  country 
should  be  lost,  but  hardly  ever  that  the  muscular  power  of  its 
idle  inhabitants  should  be  lost;  and,  again,  we  see  vast  districts, 
as  the  south  of  Provence,  where  a  strong  wind  blows  steadily  all 
day  long  for  six  days  out  of  seven  throughout  the  year,  without 
a  wind-mill,  while  men  are  continually  employed  a  hundred 
miles  to  the  north  in  digging  fuel  to  obtain  artificial  power. 

But  the  principal  of  all  to  be  kept  in  view  is  that  in  every 
idle  arm  and  shoulder  throughout  the  country  there  is  a  certain 

quantity  of  force,  equivalent  to  the  force  of  so 

l^itnl  Force  \    r     \  II'*  • 

much  ruel;  and  that  it  is  mere  insane  waste  to 

Mechanical  Force.  ^'S  ^^"^  ^^"^  ^°'"  °^^  force,  while  the  vital  force  is 
unused;  and  not  only  unused,  but  in  being  so, 
corrupting  and  polluting  itself.  We  waste  our  coal  and  spoil 
our  humanity  at  one  and  the  same  instant.  Therefore,  when- 
ever there  is  an  idle  arm,  always  save  coal  with  it,  and  the  stores 
of  England  will  last  all  the  longer.  And  precisely  the  same 
argument  answers  the  common  one  about  "taking  employment 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  industrious  laborer."  Why,  what  is 
"employment"  but  the  putting  out  of  vital  force  instead  of 
mechanical  force?  We  are  continually  in  search  of  means  of 
strength  —  to  pull,  to  hammer,  to  fetch,  to  carry;  we  waste  our 
future  resources  to  get  power,  while  we  leave  all  the  living  fuel 
to  burn  itself  out  in  mere  pestiferous  breath  and  produdion  of 
its  variously  noisome  forms  of  ashes  !  Clearly,  if  we  want  fire  for 
force  we  want  men  for  force  first.  The  industrious  hands  must 
have  so  much  to  do  that  they  can  do  no  more,  or  else  we  need 
not  use  machines  to  help  them:  then  use  the  idle  hands  first. 

222 


BOOK-SHELF 


Instead  of  dragging  petroleum  with  a  steam-engine,  put  it  on  a 
canal,  and  drag  it  with  human  arms  and  shoulders.  Petroleum 
cannot  possibly  be  in  a  hurry  to  arrive  anywhere.  We  can 
always  order  that  and  many  other  things  time  enough  before  we 
want  them.  So  the  carriage  of  everything  that  does  not  spoil 
by  keeping  may  most  wholesomely  and  safely  be  done  by 
water-tra6tion  and  sailing  vessels,  and  no  healthier  work  nor 
better  discipline  can  men  be  put  to  than  such  adive  porterage. 

2.  In  employing  all  the  muscular  power  at  our  disposal, 
we  are  to  make  the  employments  we  choose  as  educational  as 
possible.  For  a  wholesome  human  employment  is  the  first  and 
best  method  of  education,  mental  as  well  as  bodily.  A  man 
taught  to  plow,  row  or  steer  well,  and  a  woman  taught  to  cook 
properly  and  make  dress  neatly,  are  already  educated  in  many 
essential  moral  habits.  Labor  considered  as  a  discipline  has 
hitherto  been  thought  of  only  for  criminals;  but  the  real  and 
noblest  fundlion  of  labor  is  to  prevent  crime,  and  not  to  be 
i?^formatory,  but  Formatory. 


223 


MY      FAVORITE 

ADDISON     P.     RUSSELL. 


Excellence  is  not  matured  in  a  day,  and  the  cost  of  it  is  an 

old   story.     The   beginning  of  Plato's   Republic  was  found  in 

his  tablets  written  over  and  over  in  a  variety  of 

^f'ui  ways.      It  took  Virgil,  it  is  stated,  three  years  to 

the  Capacity  for  •'  ,  .  11  ^ 

Takinz  Pains.  compose  his  ten  short  eclogues;  seven  years  to 
elaborate  his  Georgics,  which  comprise  little 
more  than  two  thousand  verses;  and  he  employed  more  than 
twelve  years  in  polishing  his  i^neid,  being  even  then  so  dis- 
satisfied with  it,  that  he  wished  before  his  death  to  commit  it 
to  the  flames.  Horace  was  equally  indefatigable,  and  there  are 
single  odes  in  his  works  which  must  have  cost  him  months  of 
labor.  Lucretius's  one  poem  represents  the  toil  of  a  whole  life- 
time. Thucydides  was  twenty  years  writing  his  history,  which 
is  comprised  in  one  o6tavo  volume.  Gibbon  wrote  the  first 
chapter  of  his  work  three  times  before  he  could  please  himself. 
Montesquieu,  alluding  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  works,  says  to 
his  correspondent,  "You  will  read  it  in  a  few  hours,  but  the 
labor  expended  on  it  has  whitened  my  hair."  Henri  Beyle 
transcribed  his  History  of  Painting  in  Italy  seventeen  times. 
Sainte-Beuve  often  spent  a  whole  week  on  two  or  three  o6tavo 
pages.  Gray  was  so  fastidious  in  polishing  and  perfe6ting  his 
Elegy,  that  he  kept  it  nearly  twenty  years,  touching  it  up  and 
improving  it.  There  is  a  poem  of  ten  lines  in  Waller's  works, 
which  he  himself  informs  us,  took  him  a  whole  summer  to  put 
into  shape.  Malherbe  would  spoil  half  a  quire  of  paper  in 
composing  and  discomposing  and  recomposing  a  stanza.  It  is 
reckoned  that  during  the  twenty-five  most  prolific  years  of  his 
life  he  composed  no  more  than,  on  the  average,  thirty-three 
verses  per  annum.  There  is  a  good  story  told  of  him,  which 
illustrates  amusingly  the  elaborate  care  he  took  with  his  poems. 
A   certain   nobleman  of  his  acquaintance   had   lost  his  wife,  and 

224 


BOOK-SHELF 


was  anxious  that  Malherbe  should  dedicate  an  ode  to  her 
memory,  and  condole  with  him  in  verse  on  the  loss  that  he  had 
sustained.  Malherbe  complied,  but  was  so  fastidious  in  his 
composition,  that  it  was  three  years  before  the  elegy  was  com- 
pleted. Just  before  he  sent  it  in,  he  was  intensely  chagrined  to 
find  that  his  noble  friend  had  solaced  himself  with  a  new  bride, 
and  was,  consequently,  in  no  humor  to  be  pestered  with  an  elegy 
on  his  old  one.  When  dying,  his  confessor,  in  speaking  of  the 
happiness  in  heaven,  expressed  himself  inaccurately.  "Say  no 
more  about  it,"  said  Malherbe,  "or  your  style  will  disgust 
me  with  it."      Miss  Austen,  Charlotte   Bronte,  Tasso. 

Hume,  and   Fox,  have  all  recorded  the  trouble  Pope. 

they  took.     Tasso  was  unwearied  in  correding;        La  Fontaine. 
so  were    Pope   and    Boileau.     The   Cambridge  Dante. 

manuscript  of  Milton's  Lycidas  shows  numerous  erasures  and 
interlineations.  Pascal  spent  twenty  days  in  perfecting  a  single 
letter.  The  fables  of  La  Fontaine  were  copied  and  recopied 
over  and  over  again.  Alfieri  was  laboriously  painstaking  in 
composition.  We  are  told  that  if  he  approved  of  his  first 
sketch  of  a  piece  —  after  laying  it  by  for  some  time,  nor 
approaching  it  again  until  his  mind  was  free  of  the  subjed:  — 
he  submitted  it  to  what  he  called  "development" — writing  out 
in  prose  the  indicated  scenes,  with  all  the  force  at  his  command, 
but  without  stopping  to  analyze  a  thought  or  corred:  an  expres- 
sion. He  then  proceeded  to  verify  at  his  leisure  the  prose  he 
had  written,  seleding  with  care  the  ideas  he  thought  best,  and 
rejedling  those  which  he  deemed  unworthy  of  a  place.  Nor  did 
he  even  yet  regard  his  work  as  finished,  but  incessantly  polished 
it,  verse  by  verse,  and  made  continual  alterations.  Moliere 
composed  very  slowly,  although  he  liked  the  contrary  to  be 
understood,  and  many  pieces  supposed  to  have  been  written 
upon  the  spur  of  a  royal  command  had  been 
prepared    some   time    previously.      He    said    to  Moliere. 

Boileau,    "  I    have    never    done    anything   with  Sheridan. 

which    I    am    truly    content."     Sheridan,  when 
urged  by  the  publisher,  Ridgeway,  to  finish  his  manuscript  of 

225 


MY      FAVORITE 


The  School  for  Scandal,  declared  that  he  had  been  nineteen 
years  endeavoring  to  satisfy  himself  with  the  style  of  it,  but 
had  not  succeeded.  Joubert  had  a  habit  from  his  twentieth 
year  to  his  seventieth,  of  jotting  down  with  pencil  the  best 
issues  of  his  meditation  as  they  arose;  and  out  of  this  chaos  of 
notes  was  shaped,  many  years  after  his  death,  a  full  volume  of 
Thoughts,  "which,"  says  the  translator,  " from  their  freshness 
and  insight,  their  concise  symmetry  of  expression,  their  pithi- 
ness, their  variety,  make  a  rich,  enduring  addition  to  the  litera- 
Addison.  ture  of  France,  and  to  all  literature."     Addison 

Lamb.  wore  out  the  patience  of  his  printer;  frequently, 

Tennyson.  when  nearly  a  whole  impression  of  a  Spectator 
Dickens.  ^^g   worked   off,  he   would   stop   the    press    to 

insert  a  new  preposition.  Lamb's  most  sportive  essays  were 
the  result  of  most  intense  labor;  he  used  to  spend  a  week  at  a 
time  in  elaborating  a  single  humorous  letter  to  a  friend.  Ten- 
nyson is  reported  to  have  written  Come  into  the  Garden, 
Maud,  more  than  fifty  times  over  before  it  pleased  him ;  and, 
Locksley  Hall,  the  first  draught  of  which  was  written  in  two 
days,  he  spent  the  better  part  of  six  weeks,  for  eight  hours  a 
day,  in  altering  and  polishing.  Dickens,  when  he  intended  to 
write  a  Christmas  story,  shut  himself  up  for  six  weeks,  lived  the 
life  of  a  hermit,  and  came  out  looking  as  haggard  as  a  mur- 
derer. His  manuscripts  show  that  he  wrote  with  the  greatest 
care,  and  scrupulously  revised  his  writing  in  order  to  render 
each  sentence  as  perfect  as  might  be.  He  made  his  alterations 
so  carefully  that  it  is  difficult  to  trace  the  words  which  he  had 
originally  written.  Moore  thought  it  quick  work  if  he  wrote 
seventy   lines  of  Lalla   Rookh   in   a  week.      Ten  years  elapsed 

between   the  first  sketch  of  Goldsmith's  Trav- 

Moore.  eller  and  its  completion.     The  poet's  habit  was 

Goldsmith.         to  set  down  his  ideas  in  prose,  and  when  he  had 

turned  them  carefully  into  rhyme,  to  continue 
retouching  the  lines  with  infinite  pains  to  give  point  to  the  sen- 
timent and  polish  to  the  verse. 


226 


BOOK-SHELF 


As    to    compensation,    it    is    stated    that    Goethe's   works 
were   not  in   his   own  time   commercially  successful.     After  his 
return   from    Italy,  the   edition  of  his  collected 
works,  which  he  had  compared  and  revised  with      „     ,  „ 

,    ,  1       •   I  11  1  •  11-1  Poets    Poor  Pay. 

labor  and  with  care,  sold,  as  his  publisher  com- 
plained, only  "very  slowly."     Coleridge  gained 
little   or   no   money   by   his   writings.      He    says,  "I    question 
whether  there  ever  existed  a  man  of  letters  so  utterly  friendless, 
or  so  unconneded  as  I  am  with  the  dispensers  of  contemporary 
reputation,  or  the  publishers  in  whose  service  they  labor." 

Paradise  Lost  had  a  very  limited  sale,  till,  fifty  years 
after  its  publication,  it  was  brought  into  light  by  the  criticisms 
of  Addison.  Campbell  for  years  could  not  find  a  bookseller 
who  would  buy  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.  Twelve  years 
elapsed  before  the  first  five  hundred  copies  of  Emerson's 
Nature  were  purchased  by  the  public. 

Fortune,  it  has  been  truly  said,  has  rarely  condescended  to 
be  the  companion   of  genius;  others  find  a  hundred  byroads  to 
her  palace;   there  is  but  one  open,  and  that  a 
very  indifferent  one,  for  men  of  letters.     Cer-      Poverty  of  the 
vantes,  the  immortal  genius  of   Spain,  is  sup-  Immortals. 

posed  to  have  wanted  bread;  Le  Sage  was  a 
vi6tim  of  poverty  all  his  life ;  Camoens,  the  solitary  pride  of 
Portugal,  deprived  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  perished  in  a  hos- 
pital at  Lisbon.  The  Portuguese  after  his  death,  bestowed  on 
the  man  of  genius  they  had  starved  the  appellation  of  Great. 
Vondel,  the  Dutch  Shakespeare,  to  whom  Milton  was  greatly 
indebted,  after  composing  a  number  of  popular  tragedies,  lived 
in  great  poverty,  and  died  at  ninety  years  of  age;  then  he  had 
his  coffin  carried  by  fourteen  poets,  who,  without  his  genius, 
probably  partook  of  his  wretchedness.  The  great  Tasso  was 
reduced  to  such  a  dilemma  that  he  was  obliged  to  borrow  a 
crown  from  a  friend  to  subsist  through  the  week.  One  day 
Louis  XIV  asked  Racine  what  there  was  new  in  the  literary 
world.  The  poet  answered  that  he  had  seen  a  melancholy  spec- 
tacle in  the  house  of  Corneille,  whom  he  found  dying,  deprived 

227 


MY      FAVORITE 


even  of  a  little  broth.  "You,"  said  Goldsmith  to  Bob  Bryan- 
ton,  "seem  placed  at  the  center  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and,  let  it 
revolve  ever  so  fast,  are  insensible  to  the  motion.  I  seem  to 
have  been  tied  to  the  circumference,  and  whirled  disagreeably 
round,  as  if  on  a  whirligig.  O  gods!  gods!  here  in  a  garret, 
writing  for  bread,  and  expecting  to  be  dunned  for  a  milk- 
score!"  It  has  been  related  that  while  Madame  Titiens  was 
receiving  an  ovation  for  her  singing  of  Kathleen  Mavourneen, 
the  author  of  the  song  sat  weeping  in  the  audience,  the  poorest 
and  obscurest  man  present. 

The  most  popular  song  ever  written  in  the  British  Islands, 
that  of  Auld   Lang  Syne,  is  anonymous,  and  we  know  no  more 
of  the  author  of  the  music  than  we  do  of  the 
.  ,,  r        o  author  of  the  words. 

Aula  Lan?  byne.  k  it      \        r  -n  ■>  r  t  ■ 

Much  or  Burns  great  tame  rests  upon  this 
song,  in  which  his  share  amounts  only  to  a  few 
emendations.  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  is  said  to  be  made 
up  in  great  part  of  an  old  Sicilian  air,  originating  nobody  knows 
when.  Home,  Sweet  Home  was  written  in  a  garret  in  the 
Palais  Royal,  Paris,  when  poor  Payne  was  so  utterly  destitute 
and  friendless  that  he  knew  not  where  the  next  day's  dinner  was 
to  come  from. 

Christopher    North     is     described     as     "long-maned    and 

mighty,  whose  eyes  were  'as  the  lightnings  of  fiery  flame,'  and 

his  voice   like   an   organ  bass;   who  laid   about 

^,  .      ,      ,.     ,     him,  when  the  fit  was  on,  like  a  Titan,  breaking 

Christopher  North.  ,  ,     ,  ,     '  ,  ',  ,     ^ 

small  men  s  bones;  who  was  loose  and  careless 
in  his  apparel,  even  as  in  all  things  he  seemed 
too  strong  and  primitive  to  heed  much  the  niceties  of  custom." 
In  his  youth,  he  "ran  three  miles  for  a  wager  against  a  chaise," 
and  came  out  ahead.  Somewhat  later  he  "gained  a  bet  by 
walking  toe  and  heel,  six  miles  in  two  minutes  within  the  hour." 
When  he  was  twenty-one,  height  five  feet  eleven  inches,  weight 
eleven  stone,  he    leaped,  with  a  run,  twenty-three  feet,  "  on  a 

228 


BOOK-SHELF 


slightly  inclined  plane,  perhaps  an  inch  to  a  yard,"  and  "was 
admitted  to  be  ( Ireland  excepted)  the  best  far  leaper  of  his  day 
in  England."  He  could  jump  twelve  yards  in  three  jumps, 
with  a  great  stone  in  each  hand.  "With  him  the  angler's  silent 
trade  was  a  ruling  passion.  He  did  not  exaggerate  to  the  Shep- 
herd in  the  No<5tes,  when  he  said  that  he  had  taken  a  hundred 
and  thirty  in  one  day  out  of  Loch  Aire,  as  we  see  by  his  letters 
that  even  larger  numbers  were  taken  by  him."  Of  his  pugilistic 
skill,  it  is  said  by  De  Quincey  that  "there  was  no  man  who  had 
any  talents,  real  or  fancied,  for  thumping  or  being  thumped,  but 
he  had  experienced  some  preeing  of  his  merits  from  Mr.  Wil- 
son." "  Meeting  one  day  with  a  rough  and  unruly  wayfarer, 
who  showed  inclination  to  pick  a  quarrel  concerning  right  of 
passage  across  a  certain  bridge,  the  fellow  obstructed  the  way, 
and  making  himself  decidedly  obnoxious,  Wilson  lost  all 
patience,  and  offered  to  fight  him.  The  man  made  no  objection 
to  the  proposal,  but  replied  that  he  had  better  not  fight  with 
him,  as  he  was  so  and  so,  mentioning  the  name  of  a  (then  not 
unknown)  pugilist.  This  statement  had,  as  may  be  supposed, 
no  effed:  in  dampening  the  belligerent  intentions 
of  the  Oxonian ;  he  knew  his  own  strength,  and    Cbnstopher  North 

,.,.,,  T  ^     °      ^    .  .        as  a  Pugilist  and 

nis  skill,  too.  In  one  moment  oit  went  his  Pedestrian. 
coat,  and  he  set  to  upon  his  antagonist  in 
splendid  style.  The  astonished  and  punished  rival,  on  recover- 
ing from  his  blows  and  surprise,  accosted  him  thus:  'You  can 
only  be  one  of  the  two :  you  are  either  Jack  Wilson  or  the  devil.'  " 
His  pedestrian  feats  were  marvelous.  "On  one  occasion,"  writes 
an  old  classmate  of  Wilson's  at  Oxford,  "  having  been  absent  a 
day  or  two,  we  asked  him  on  his  return  to  the  common  room 
where  he  had  been.  He  said,  'In  London.'  'When  did  you 
return?'  'This  morning.'  '  How  did  you  come? '  'On  foot.' 
As  we  all  expressed  surprise,  he  said,  'Why,  the  fad:  is,  I  dined 
yesterday  with  a  friend  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  as  I  quitted 
the  house,  a  fellow  who  was  passing  was  impertinent  and  insulted 
me,  upon  which  I  knocked  him  down;  and  as  I  did  not  choose 
to  have  myself  called   in   question   for  a  street  row,  I   at  once 


229 


MY      FAVORITE 


started,  as  I  was,  in  my  dinner  dress,  and  never  stopped  until  I 
^ot  to  the  college  gate  this  morning,  as  it  was  being  opened.' 
Now  this  was  a  walk  of  fifty-eight  miles  at  least,  which  he  must 
have  got  over  in  eight  or  nine  hours  at  most,  supposing  him  to 
have  left  the  dinner-party  at  nine  in  the  evening."  Some  years 
later,  he  walked,  his  wife  accompanying  him,  "three  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  in  the  Highlands,  between  the  fifth  of  July  and 
the  twenty-sixth  of  August,  sojourning  in  divers  glens  from  Sab- 
bath unto  Sabbath,  fishing,  eating  and  staring."  Mrs.  Wilson 
returned  from  this  wonderful  tour  "bonnier  than  ever,"  and 
Wilson  himself,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  "strong  as  an  eagle." 
One  of  their  resting-places  was  at  the  schoolmaster's  house  in 
Glenorchv.  While  there  "his  time  was  much  occupied  by  fish- 
ing, and  distance  was  not  considered  an  obstacle.  He  started 
one  morning  at  an  early  hour  to  fish  in  a  loch  which  at  that  time 
abounded  in  trout,  in  the  Braes  of  Glenorchy,  called  Loch 
Toila.  Its  nearest  point  was  thirteen  miles  distant  from  his 
lodgings  at  the  schoolhouse.  On  reaching  it  and  unscrewing 
the  butt-end  of  his  fishing-rod  to  get  the  top,  he  found  he  had 
it  not.  Nothing  daunted  he  walked  back,  breakfasted,  got  his 
fishing-rod,  made  all  complete,  and  oflF  again  to  Loch  Toila. 
He  could  not  resist  fishing  on  the  river  when  a  pool  looked 
inviting,  but  he  went  always  onward,  reaching  the  loch  a  second 
time,  fished  round  it,  and  found  that  the  long  summer  day  had 
come  to  an  end.  He  set  off  for  his  home  again  with  his  fish- 
ing-basket full,  and  confessing  somewhat  to  weariness.  Passing 
near  a  farmhouse  whose  inmates  he  knew  (for  he  had  formed 
acquaintance  with  all),  he  went  to  get  some  food.  They  were 
in  bed,  for  it  was  eleven   o'clock  at   night,  and 

,  ,^„     after  rousing  them,  the  hostess  hastened  to  sup- 
IVhisky  and  Milk.        ...  i,  ji  i- 

■'  ply  him;  but  he  requested  her  to  get  him  some 

whisky  and  milk.      She  came  with  a  bottle  full, 

and   a  can   of  milk,  and   a   tumbler.      Instead   of  a   tumbler,  he 

requested  a  bowl,  and  poured  the  half  of  the  whisky  in,  along 

with  half  the  milk.      He  drank  the  mixture  at  a  draught,  and 

while    his   kind    hostess   was    looking   on   with   amazement,  he 

230 


BOOK-SHELF 


poured  the  remainder  of  the  whisky  and  milk  into  the  bowl, 
and  drank  that  also.  He  then  proceeded  homeward,  perform- 
ing a  journey  of  not  less  than  seventy  miles."  Prodigious!  It 
beat  the  achievement  of  Phidippides,  who,  according  to  tradition, 
ran  from  Athens  to  Sparta,  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles,  in 
two  days.  But  here  is  a  street  scene,  related  to  his  daughter  by 
a  lady  who  saw  it,  which  illustrates  the  tremendous  professor  of 
moral  philosophy  still  further.  "  One  summer  afternoon,  as 
she  was  about  to  sit  down  to  dinner,  her  servant  requested  her 
to  look  out  of  the  window,  to  see  a  man  cruelly  beating  his 
horse.  The  sight  not  being  a  very  gratifying  one,  she  declined, 
and  proceeded  to  take  her  seat  at  the  table.  It  was  quite  evi- 
dent that  the  servant  had  discovered  something  more  than  the 
ill-usage  of  the  horse  to  divert  his  attention,  for  he  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  window,  again  suggesting  to  his  mistress  that 
she  ought  to  look  out.  Her  interest  was  at  length  excited,  and 
she  rose  to  see  what  was  going  on.  In  front  of  her  house 
(Moray  Place)  stood  a  cart  of  coals,  which  the  poor  vi6tim  of 
the  carter  was  unable  to  drag  along.  He  had 
been  beating  the  beast  most  unmercifully,  when  His  Battle  with 
at  that  moment  Professor  Wilson,  walking  past,  ^he  Carter. 
had  seen  the  outrage  and  immediately  interfered. 
The  lady  said  that  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  vehe- 
mence of  his  manner,  the  man  was  evidently  'getting  it,'  though 
she  was  unable  to  hear  what  was  said.  The  carter,  exasperated 
at  this  interference,  took  up  his  whip  in  a  threatening  way,  as  if 
with  the  intent  to  strike  the  professor.  In  an  instant  that  well- 
nerved  hand  twisted  it  from  the  coarse  fist  of  the  man  as  if  it  had 
been  a  straw,  and  walking  quietly  up  to  the  cart  he  unfastened 
its  trams,  and  hurled  the  whole  weight  of  coals  into  the  street. 
The  rapidity  with  which  this  was  done  left  the  driver  of  the  cart 
speechless.  Meanwhile  poor  Rosinante,  freed  from  his  burden, 
crept  slowly  away,  and  the  professor,  still  clutching  the  whip  in 
one  hand,  and  leading  the  horse  in  the  other,  proceeded  through 
Moray  Place  to  deposit  the  wretched  animal  in  better  keeping 
than    that    of    his    driver."     Another   of   his    "  interferences " 

231 


MY      FAVORITE 


occurred  during  vacation  time  in  the  south  of  Scotland,  when 
the  professor  had  exchanged  the  gown  for  the  old  "sporting 
jacket."  On  his  return  to  Edinburgh,  he  was  obliged  to  pass 
through  Hawick,  where,  on  his  arrival,  finding  it  to  be  fair-day, 
he  readily  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  witness  the 
amusements  going  on.  These  happened  to  include  a  "little 
mill"  between  two  members  of  the  local  "fancy."  His  interest 
in  pugilism  attraded  him  to  the  spot,  where  he  soon  discovered 
something  very  wrong,  and  a  degree  of  injustice  being  perpe- 
trated which  he  could  not  stand.  It  was  the  work  of  a  moment 
to  espouse  the  weaker  side,  a  proceeding  which  naturally  drew 
down  upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  opposite  party.  This  result 
was  to  him,  however,  of  little  consequence.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  beat  or  be  beaten.  He  was  soon  in  "position," 
and  before  his  unknown  adversary  well  knew  what  was  coming, 
the  skilled  fist  of  the  professor  had  planted  such  a  "facer"  as 
did  not  require  repetition.  Another  "round"  was  not  called 
for;  and  leaving  the  discomfited  champion  to  recover  at  his 
leisure,  the  professor  walked  coolly  away  to  take  his  seat  in  the 

stage-coach,  about  to   start   for   Edinburgh.      Is 

h  ^iP\         '^  ^"y  wonder  that  such  a  gigantic  specimen  of 

^Ijg  human  nature  was  thought  by  the  steady-going 

and  saintly  Edinburghers,  who  tried  men  by  the 
mathematics  and  the  catechism,  to  be  preposterously  unfit  for 
the  chair  of  ethics  in  their  hallowed  university.'' 

It   is  said    that  when    Leonardo  da  Vinci   had  finished   his 

celebrated   pidture  of  the   Last  Supper,  he  introduced  a  friend 

to  inspedl  the  work  privately,  and  give  his  judg- 

,         J   J    ,r.    .     ment    concerning    it.     "Exquisite!"    exclaimed 
Leonardo  da  ymct.     i  •      r  •        i      rr    i  •  i 

his  tnend;  "that  wme-cup  seems  to  stand  out 
from  the  table  as  solid,  glittering  silver."  There- 
upon the  artist  took  a  brush  and  blotted  out  the  cup,  saying,  "  I 
meant  that  the  figure  of  Christ  should  first  and  mainly  attra6l 
the  observer's  eye,  and  whatever  diverts  attention  from  Him 
must  be  blotted  out."     Could  we  poor  mortals  just  as  readily 

232 


BOOK-SHELF 


blot  out  of  our  lives  whatever  diverts   attention    from  the  real 
good  that  is  in  us,  how  differently  would  we  appear  to  others! 

Just  before  going  to  India,  Macaulay  wrote  to  Lord  Lans- 
downe :     "  I  feel   that  the  sacrifice  which  I  am  about  to  make  is 
great.     But  the  motives  which  urge  me  to  make 
it  are  quite  irresistible.     Every  day  that  I   live  ^       . 

1  become  less  and  less  desirous  of  great  wealth. 
But  every  day  makes  me  more  sensible  of  the 
importance  of  a  competence.  Without  a  competence,  it  is  not 
very  easy  for  a  public  man  to  be  honest;  it  is  almost  impossible 
for  him  to  be  thought  so.  I  am  so  situated  that  I  can  subsist 
only  in  two  ways:  by  being  in  office,  and  by  my  pen.  Hitherto 
literature  has  been  merely  my  relaxation  —  the  amusement  of 
perhaps  a  month  in  the  year.  I  have  never  considered  it  as  the 
means  of  support.  I  have  chosen  my  own  topics,  taken  my 
own  time,  and  dictated  my  own  terms.  The  thought  of  becom- 
ing a  bookseller's  hack;  of  writing  to  relieve,  not  the  fullness 
of  the  mind,  but  the  emptiness  of  the  pocket;  of  spurring  a 
jaded  fancy  to  reludlant  exertion ;  of  filling  sheets  with  trash 
merely  that  the  sheets  may  be  filled;  of  bearing  from  publish- 
ers and  editors  what  Dryden  bore  from  Tonson,  and  what,  to  my 
own  knowledge.  Mackintosh  bore  from  Lardner,  is  horrible  to 
me.  Yet  thus  it  must  be  if  I  should  quit  office.  Yet  to  hold 
office  merely  for  the  sake  of  emolument  would  be  more  horrible 
still.  The  situation  in  which  I  have  been  placed,  for  some  time 
back,  would  have  broken  the  spirit  of  many  men.  It  has  rather 
tended  to  make  me  the  most  mutinous  and  unmanageable  of 
the  followers  of  the  Government.  I  tendered  my  resignation 
twice  during  the  course  of  the  last  session.  I  certainly  should 
not  have  done  so  if  I  had  been  a  man  of  fortune." 

Whenever  one  of  Macaulay's  books  was  passing  through 
the  press,  he  extended  his  indefatigable  industry  and  his  scru- 
pulous precision  to  the  minutest  mechanical  drudgery  of  the 
literary   calling.     There   was    no    end    to   the   trouble    that    he 


MY      FAVORITE 


devoted  to  matters  which  most  authors  are  only  too  glad  to 
leave  to  the  care  and  experience  of  their  publisher.      He  could 

not  rest  until   the  lines  were   level  to   a  hair's 

Macaulay^s        breadth,  and  the  punctuation  correct  to  a  comma; 

Precision.         until  every  paragraph  concluded  with  a  telling 

sentence,  and  every  sentence  flowed  like  running 
water.  Thackeray  said,  "  He  reads  twenty  books  to  write  a 
sentence;  he  travelled  a  hundred  miles  to  make  a  line  of 
description."  The  last  use  the  great  man  made  of  his  pen  was 
to  sign  a  letter  he  had  dictated,  inclosing  twenty -five  pounds 
to  a  poor  curate. 

Some  one   has  said,  that  to   have  a  true  idea  of  man,  or 
of  life,  one  must  have  stood  himself  on  the  brink  of  suicide, 
or  on  the  door-sill   of  insanity,  at    least  once. 
Between  the        It  does  seem  impossible  that  easy-going  people, 
Millstones.         who  have  been  easily  prosperous,  who  have  uni- 
formly enjoyed  good   health,  who  have  always 
been    free    from    distressing    care,   should  know   at  all  what  is 
inevitably  and  perfectly  known  by  being  between  the  millstones. 
*' We  learn  geology,"  says  Emerson,  "the  morning  after 
the    earthquake,    on    ghastly    diagrams    of    cloven    mountains, 
upheaved  plains,  and  the  dry  bed  of  the  sea." 
''Sweetness  out      It  is  only  an  experience  of  the  awful  that  fully 
of  Woe.''  opens  the  eyes  of  the  understanding  upon  the 

dread  abysses  of  extremity  and  possibility.  To 
know  life,  it  is  necessary  to  have  struggled  hard  in  the  midst  of 
it;  to  feel  for  the  suffering,  we  must  have  suffered  acutely  our- 
selves. "  Before  there  is  wine  or  there  is  oil,  the  grape  must  be 
trodden  and  the  olive  must  be  pressed."  The  sweetest  char- 
afters,  we  know,  often  result  from  the  bitterest  experiences. 
The  weight  of  great  misfortunes,  and  the  perpetual  annoyance 
of  petty  evils,  only  tend  to  make  them  stronger  and  better. 
Patience  and  resignation  under  multiplied  ills  can  hardly  be  con- 
ceived by  those  who  have  only  trodden  at  will,  without  burdens, 
over  safe  and  pleasant  ground  in  easy  sandals.     They  look  upon 

234 


BOOK-SHELF 


life  and  inquire,  "What  would  the  possession  of  a  hundred 
thousand  a  year,  or  fame,  and  the  applause  of  one's  country- 
men, or  the  loveliest  and  best-beloved  woman,  of  any  glory 
and  happiness,  or  good  fortune,  avail  to  a  man,  who  was  allowed 
to  enjoy  them  only  with  the  condition  of  wearing  a  shoe  with  a 
couple  of  nails  or  sharp  pebbles  inside  of  it?"  Good  men, 
knowledge  of  the  world  teaches  us,  are  not  easily  found  amongst 
those  who  have  never  known  misfortune:  "the  heart  must  be 
softened  by  sufferings,  to  make  it  constant,  firm,  patient,  and 
wise."  As  there  are  fishes  which  are  intended  by  nature  for 
great  sea-depths,  so  there  are  human  beings  to  whom  severe 
pressure  seems  to  be  suited,  and  who  seem  to  thrive  best  when 
every  weight  is  upon  them.  Birds  of  Paradise,  from  the  very 
nature  of  their  plumage,  cannot  fly  except  against  the  wind. 
One  of  the  most  marvelously  beautiful  of  all  the  many  species 
of  the  humming-bird  is  only  to  be  found  in  the  crater  of  an 
extinguished  volcano. 

We    know  that    Scott  dictated    that    fine    love   story,  the 
Bride  of  Lammermoor,  from  a  bed  of  torment;    and  that  so 
great  was  his  suffering  that  when  he  rose  from 
his  bed,  and  the  published  book  was  placed  in      _..„     j^i 

,.,         ,,        1-j  iin  •!••         Dictate  a  from  a 

his  hands,  he  did  not  recollect  one  single  inci-       Bed  of  Pain. 
dent,  character,  or  conversation  it  contained. 

We  know,  too,  that  many  of  Hood's  most  humorous  pro- 
ductions were  dictated  to  his  wife,  while  he  himself  was  in   bed 
from  distressing  and  protraded  sickness.     His 
own   family  was    the    only  one  which   was   not    r,    ,,    ,      .«,  , 

.,.,        i-i         1  /"••         A  1  11     tiood  s  Last  Joke. 

dehghted  with  the  Comic  Annual,  so  well 
thumbed  in  every  house.  "We  ourselves," 
said  his  son,  "did  not  enjoy  it  till  the  lapse  of  many  years 
had  mercifully  softened  down  some  of  the  sad  recollediions  con- 
nected with  it."  It  is  recorded  of  him,  that  upon  a  mustard 
plaster  being  applied  to  his  attenuated  feet,  as  he  lay  in  the 
direst  extremity,  he  was  heard  feebly  to  remark,  that  there  was 
"very  little  meat  for  the  mustard." 


235 


MY      FAVORITE 


Lamb,  in  his  isolation  and  dreariness  and  gloom,  wrote  and 
wrote  to  keep  his  mind  from  preying  on  itself.     You  remember 

the  story  of  the  black  pin  which  the  lady  wore 
««7"A    Ri  IP    "   ^^    ^    brooch  —  repeated    some    time    ago     by 

Holmes    in  one    of  his    happy   little  speeches. 

Her  husband  had  been  confined  in  prison  for 
some  political  offense.  He  was  left  alone  with  his  thoughts  to 
torture  him.  No  voice,  no  book,  no  implement — silence,  dark- 
ness, misery,  sleepless  self-torment;  and  soon  it  must  be  mad- 
ness. All  at  once  he  thought  of  something  to  occupy  these 
terrible  unsleeping  faculties.  He  took  a  pin  from  his  neckcloth 
and  threw  it  upon  the  floor.  Then  he  groped  for  it.  It  was  a 
little  obje6t,  and  the  search  was  a  long  and  laborious  one.  At 
last  he  found  it,  and  felt  a  certain  sense  of  satisfadiion  in  diffi- 
culty overcome.  But  he  had  found  a  great  deal  more  than  a 
pin  —  he  had  found  an  occupation,  and  every  day  he  would  fling 
it  from  him  and  lose  it,  and  hunt  for  it,  and  at  last  find  it,  and 
so  he  saved  himself  from  going  mad:  and  you  will  not  wonder 
that  when  he  was  set  free  and  gave  the  little  objeft  to  which  he 
owed  his  reason  and,  perhaps,  his  life,  to  his  wife,  she  had  it  set 
round  with  pearls  and  wore  it  next  her  heart. 

Sheridan,  from  being  regarded  at  school  as  "a  most  impen- 
etrable dunce,"   rose  to  be,  in  many  respedts,  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  men  in  the  world.     His  speech  on 
Sheridan's  Mag-     the   impeachment  of  Warren   Hastings,   Burke 
netic  Oratory.       declared  to  be  "the  most  astonishing  effort  of 
eloquence,  argument,  and   wit,  united,  of  which 
there  was  any  record  or  tradition."     Fox  said,  "all  that  he  had 
ever  heard,  all  that  he  had  ever  read,  when  compared  with  it, 
dwindled  into  nothing,  and  vanished  like  vapor  before  the  sun." 
Pitt  acknowledged  "  that  it  surpassed  all  the  eloquence  of  ancient 
and  modern  times,  and  possessed  everything  that  genius  and  art 
could  furnish  to  agitate  and  control  the  human   mind."     At  the 
close  of  it  occurs  this  celebrated  passage:   "Justice  I    have  now 
before    me,   august    and    pure;    the    abstrad:    idea    of    all   that 

236 


BOOK-SHELF 


would  be  perfe6t  in  the  spirits  and  the  aspirings  of  men  !  —  where 
the  mind  rises,  where  the  heart  expands  —  where  the  counte- 
nance is  ever  placid  and  benign — where  her  favorite  attitude  is 
to  stoop  to  the  unfortunate  —  to  hear  their  cry  and  to  help 
them,  to  rescue  and  relieve,  and  to  succor  and  save: — majestic 
from  its  mercy;  venerable  from  its  utility;  uplifted,  without 
pride;  firm,  without  obduracy;  beneficent  in  each  preference; 
lovely,  though  in  her  frown ! " 

The  speech  occupied  five  hours  and  a  half  in  the  delivery. 
An  anecdote  is  given  as  a  proof  of  its  irresistible  power  in  a 
note  upon  Bissett's  History  of  the  Reign  of  George  III:  "The 
late  Mr.  Logan,  well  known  for  his  literary  efforts,  and  author 
of  a  most  masterly  defense  of  Mr.  Hastings,  went  that  day  to 
the  House  of  Commons,  prepossessed  for  the  accused  and 
against  the  accuser.  At  the  expiration  of  the  first  hour  he  said 
to  a  friend,  'All  this  is  declamatory  assertion  without  proof;' 
when  the  second  was  finished,  'This  is  a  most  wonderful  ora- 
tion;' at  the  close  of  the  third,  'Mr.  Hastings  has  aded  very 
unjustifiably;'  the  fourth,  'Mr.  Hastings  is  a  most  atrocious 
criminal;'  and  at  the  last,  '  Of  all  monsters  of  iniquity,  the 
most  enormous  is  Warren  Hastings.'" 


237 


MY      FAVORITE 


SCHOPENHAUER. 


Schopenhauer  does  not  dired  the  imagination  to  anything 
outside  this  present  life  as  making  it  worth  while  to  live  at  all; 
his  objed  is  to  state  the  fadts  of  existence  as  they  immediately 
appear,  and  to  draw  conclusions  as  to  what  a  wise  man  will  do 
in  the  face  of  them. 

It  is  an  obvious  fa.6t,  which  cannot  be  called  in  question, 
that  the  principal  element  in  a  man's  well-being, —  indeed  in  the 

whole   tenor   of  his   existence, —  is  what    he   is 

One  Fiew         made   of,    his    inner    constitution.      For   this   is 

of  Life.  the  immediate  source  of  that  inward  satisfaction 

or  dissatisfa(5tion  resulting  from  the  sum  total  of 
his  sensations,  desires  and  thoughts;  whilst  his  surroundings,  on 
the  other  hand,  exert  only  a  mediate  or  indiredl  influence  upon 
him.  This  is  why  the  same  external  events  or  circumstances 
affed  no  two  people  alike;  even  with  perfectly  similar  surround- 
ings every  one  lives  in  a  world  of  his  own.  For  a  man  has 
immediate  apprehension  only  of  his  own  ideas,  feelings  and 
volitions;  the  outer  world  can  influence  him  only  in  so  far  as  it 
brings  these  to  life.  The  world  in  which  a  man  lives  shapes 
itself  chiefly  by  the  way  in  which  he  looks  at  it,  and  so  it  proves 
difi^erent  to  diflferent  men;  to  one  it  is  barren,  dull  and  super- 
ficial; to  another  rich,  interesting  and  full  of  meaning.  On 
hearing  of  the  interesting  events  which  have  happened  in  the 
course  of  a  man's  experience,  many  people  will  wish  that  simi- 
lar things  had  happened  in  their  lives,  too,  completely  forgetting 
that  they  should  be  envious  rather  of  the  mental  aptitude  which 
lent  those  events  the  significance  they  possess  when  he  describes 
them.  To  a  man  of  genius  they  were  interesting  adventures; 
but  to  the  dull  perceptions  of  an  ordinary  individual  they  would 
have  been   stale,  everyday  occurrences.     This  is  in  the  highest 

238 


BOOK-SHELF 


degree  the  case  with  many  of  Goethe's  and  Byron's  poems, 
which  are  obviously  founded  upon  adual  fadts;  where  it  is  open 
to  a  foohsh  reader  to  envy  the  poet  because  so  many  dehghtful 
things  happened  to  him,  instead  of  envying  that  mighty  power 
of  phantasy  which  was  capable  of  turning  a  fairly  common 
experience  into  something  so  great  and  beautiful. 

In  the  same  way,  a  person  of  melancholy  temperament  will 
make  a  scene  in  a  tragedy  out  of  what  appears  to  the  sanguine 
man  only  in  the  light  of  an  interesting  conflict,  and  to  a  phleg- 
matic soul  as  something  without  any  meaning.  This  all  rests 
upon  the  fad:  that  every  event,  in  order  to  be  realized  and 
appreciated,  requires  the  co-operation  of  two  fadlors,  namely,  a 
subjed;  and  an  objed;  although  these  are  as  closely  and  neces- 
sarily conneded  as  oxygen  and  hydrogen  in  water. 

The  life  of  every  man  is  stamped  with  the  same  charader 
throughout,  however  much  his  external  circumstances  may  alter; 
it  is  like  a  series  of  variations  on  a  single  theme. 
No  one  can  get  beyond  his  own  individuality.  °  t>"^  fij-  ^' 
An  animal,  under  whatever  circumstances  it  is  q^„  hdividualitf. 
placed,  remains  within  the  narrow  limits  to 
which  nature  has  irrevocably  consigned  it;  so  that  our  endea- 
vours to  make  a  pet  happy  must  always  keep  within  the  com- 
pass of  its  nature,  and  be  restrided  to  what  it  can  feel.  So  it  is 
with  man ;  the  measure  of  the  happiness  he  can  attain  is  deter- 
mined beforehand  by  his  individuality.  More  especially  is  this 
the  case  with  the  mental  powers,  which  fix  once  for  all  his 
capacity  for  the  higher  kinds  of  pleasure.  If  these  powers  are 
small,  no  efforts  from  without,  nothing  that  his  fellow-men,  or 
that  fortune  can  do  for  him,  will  suffice  to  raise  him  above  the 
ordinary  degree  of  human  happiness  and  pleasure,  half  animal 
though  it  be.  His  only  resources  are  his  sensual  appetite, —  a 
cosy  and  cheerful  family  life  at  the  most, —  low  company  and 
vulgar  pastime;  even  education,  on  the  whole,  can  avail  little, 
if  anything,  for  the  enlargement  of  his  horizon.  For  the  high- 
est, most  varied  and  lasting  pleasures  are  those  of  the  mind, 
however  much   our  youth   may  deceive  us   on  this  point;    and 


MY     FAVORITE 


the  pleasures  of  the  mind  turn  chiefly  on  the  powers  of  the 
mind.  It  is  clear,  then,  that  our  happiness  depends  in  a  great 
degree  upon  what  we  are^  upon  our  individuality,  whilst  lot  or 
destiny  is  generally  taken  to  mean  only  what  we  have,  or  our 
reputation. 

Health  outweighs  all  other  blessings  so  much  that  one  may 
really  say  that  a  healthy  beggar  is  happier  than  an  ailing  king. 
A  quiet  and  cheerful  temperament,  happy  in  the 
,•  I  !]/!  n'h  enjoyment  of  a  perfe6lly  sound  physique,  an 
'   Blessings  intellect    clear,    lively,    penetrating    and    seeing 

things  as  they  are,  a  moderate  and  gentle  will, 
and  therefore  a  good  conscience  —  these  are  privileges  which  no 
rank  or  wealth  can  make  up  for  or  replace.  For  what  a  man  is 
in  himself,  what  accompanies  him  when  he  is  alone,  what  no  one 
can  give  or  take  away,  is  obviously  more  essential  to  him  than 
everything  he  has  in  the  way  of  possessions,  or  even  what  he 
may  be  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  An  intellectual  man  in  com- 
plete solitude  has  excellent  entertainment  in  his  own  thoughts 
and  fancies,  whilst  no  amount  or  diversity  of  social  pleasure, 
theatres,  excursions  and  amusements,  can  ward  ofi^  boredom 
from  a  dullard.  A  good,  temperate,  gentle  character  can  be 
happy  in  needy  circumstances,  whilst  a  covetous,  envious  and 
malicious  man,  even  if  he  be  the  richest  in  the  world,  goes 
miserable.  Nay,  more;  to  one  who  has  the  constant  delight  of 
a  special  individuality,  with  a  high  degree  of  intelleft,  most  of 
the  pleasures  which  are  run  after  by  mankind  are  perfectly  super- 
fluous; they  are  even  a  trouble  and  a  burden. 

You  may  see  many  a  man,  as  industrious  as  an  ant,  cease- 
lessly occupied  from  morning  to  night  in  the  endeavour  to 
increase  his  heap  of  gold.  Beyond  the  narrow  horizon  of  means 
to  this  end,  he  knows  nothing;  his  mind  is  a  blank,  and  conse- 
quently unsusceptible  to  any  other  influence.  The  highest 
pleasures,  those  of  the  intellect,  are  to  him  inaccessible,  and  he 
tries  in  vain  to  replace  them  by  the  fleeting  pleasures  of  sense 
in  which  he  indulges,  lasting  but  a  brief  hour  and  at  tremendous 
cost.     And  if  he  is  lucky  his  struggles  result  in  his   having  a 

240 


BOOK-SHELF 


really  great  pile  of  gold,  which  he  leaves  to  his  heir,  either  to 
make  it  still  larger,  or  to  squander  it  in  extravagance.  A  life 
like  this,  though  pursued  with  a  sense  of  earnestness  and  an  air 
of  importance,  is  just  as  silly  as  many  another  which  has  a  fool's 
cap  for  its  symbol. 

What  a  man  has  in  himself  is,  then,  the  chief  element  in 
his  happiness.      Because  this  is,  as  a  rule,  so  very  little,  most  of 
those  who  are  placed  beyond  the  struggle  with 
penury,   feel   at    bottom    quite   as    unhappy   as    „.  y^^'^^^^^y 

^  •",  ...  ?•      •  -T-1     •   ^^-      1      Rich,  but  Inwardh 

those  who  are  still  engaged  m  it.      1  heir  minds  p^^^^ 

are  vacant,  their  imagination  dull,  their  spirits 
poor,  and  so  they  are  driven  to  the  company  of  those  like  them, 
where  they  make  common  pursuit  of  pastime  and  entertainment, 
consisting  for  the  most  part  in  sensual  pleasure,  amusement  of 
every  kind,  and  finally,  in  excess  and  libertinism.  A  young 
man  of  rich  family  enters  upon  life  with  a  large  patrimony,  and 
often  runs  through  it  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  in 
vicious  extravagance;  and  why?  Simply  because  here  too,  the 
mind  is  empty  and  void,  and  so  the  man  is  bored  with  existence. 
He  was  sent  forth  into  the  world  outwardly  rich  but  inwardly 
poor,  and  his  vain  endeavour  was  to  make  his  external  wealth 
compensate  for  his  inner  poverty,  by  trying  to  obtain  every- 
thing from  without^  like  an  old  man  who  seeks  to  strengthen 
himself  as  King  David  or  Marechal  de  Retz  tried  to  do.  And 
so  in  the  end  one  who  is  inwardly  poor  comes  to  be  also  poor 
outwardly. 

In  general,  nine-tenths  of  our  happiness  depends  upon 
health  alone.  With  health,  everything  is  a  source  of  pleasure; 
without  it,  nothing  else,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  enjoyable;  even 
the  other  personal  blessings, —  a  great  mind,  a  happy  tempera- 
ment, are  degraded  and  dwarfed  for  want  of  it. 

Abnormal  sensitiveness  produces  inequality  of  spirits,  a 
predominating  melancholy,  with  periodical  fits  of  unrestrained 
liveliness.  A  genius  is  one  whose  nervous  power  or  sensitive- 
ness is  largely  in  excess;  as  Aristotle  has  very  corredly  observed: 
Men  distinguished  in  philosophy,  politics,  poetry  or  art,  appear 

241 


MY      FAVORITE 


to  be  all  of  a  melancholy  temperament.  And  when  a  morbid 
afFedion  of  the  nerves,  or  a  derangement  of  the  digestive  organs 
plays  into  the  hand  of  an  innate  tendency  to  gloom,  this  tend- 
ency may  reach  such  a  height  that  permanent  discomfort  pro- 
duces a  weariness  of  life. 

A  man  never  feels  the  loss  of  things  which  it  never  occurs 
to  him  to  ask  for;  he   is  just  as   happy  without  them;  whilst 

another,  who  may  have  a  hundred  times  as  much, 
Riches  Like  feels  miserable  because  he  has  not  got  the  one 
Sea-water.         thing  which  he  wants.      In  fad:,  here  too,  every 

man  has  an  horizon  of  his  own,  and  he  will 
exped  just  as  much  as  he  thinks  it  possible  for  him  to  get.  If 
an  objed  within  his  horizon  looks  as  though  he  could  confi- 
dently reckon  on  getting  it,  he  is  happy;  but  if  difficulties  come 
in  the  way,  he  is  miserable.  What  lies  beyond  his  horizon  has 
no  effisd  at  all  upon  him.  So  it  is  that  the  vast  possessions  of 
the  rich  do  not  agitate  the  poor,  and  conversely,  that  a  wealthy 
man  is  not  consoled  by  all  his  wealth  for  the  failure  of  his 
hopes.  Riches,  one  may  say,  are  like  sea-water:  the  more  you 
drink,  the  thirstier  you  become;  and  the  same  is  true  of  fame. 
The  loss  of  wealth  and  prosperity  leaves  a  man,  as  soon  as  the 
first  pangs  of  grief  are  over,  in  very  much  the  same  habitual 
temper  as  before;  and  the  reason  of  this  is,  that  as  soon  as  fate 
diminishes  the  amount  of  his  possessions,  he  himself  immedi- 
ately reduces  the  amount  of  his  claims.  But  when  misfortune 
comes  upon  us,  to  reduce  the  amount  of  our  claims  is  just  what 
is  most  painful;  when  once  we  have  done  so,  the  pain  becomes 
less  and  less,  and  is  felt  no  more;  like  an  old  wound  which  has 
healed. 

We  should  always  recoiled  that  To-day  comes  only  once, 
and  never  returns. 

To  live  a  life  that  shall  be  entirely  prudent  and  discreet, 
and  to  draw  from  experience  all  the  instrudion  it  contains, 
it    is    requisite    to  be    constantly   thinking    back, —  to    make    a 

242 


BOOK-SHELF 


kind  of  recapitulation  of  what  we  have  done,  of  our  impres- 
sions  and   sensations,  to   compare  our   former  with   our   pres- 
ent  judgments — what    we    set    before    us    and 
struggle  to  achieve,  with  the   ad:ual  result  and        rhkn    h 
satisfadiion  we   have  obtained.     To   do    this   is 
to   get   a    repetition   of  the    private   lessons  of 
experience, —  lessons   which    are    given    to    every   one. 

However  close  the  bond  of  friendship,  love  or  marriage,  a 
man,  ultimately,  looks  to  himself,  to  his  own  welfare  alone ;  at 
most,   to   his   child's,  too.     The   less    necessity  7-/;^  i^^^ 

there  is  for  you  to  come  into  contad:  with  man-  Contaa  You  Have 
kind  in  general,  in  the  relations  whether  of  ^i^h  Mankind,  the 
business  or  of  personal  intimacy,  the  better  off  Better. 

you  are.  Loneliness  and  solitude  have  their  evils,  it  is  true; 
but  if  you  cannot  feel  them  all  at  once,  you  can  at  least  see 
where  they  lie;  on  the  other  hand,  society  is  insidious  in  this 
respeft;  as  in  offering  you  what  appears  to  be  the  pastime  of 
pleasing  social  intercourse,  it  works  great  and  often  irreparable 
mischief.  The  young  should  early  be  trained  to  bear  being  left 
alone;  for  it  is  a  source  of  happiness  and  peace  of  mind. 

It  follows  from  this  that  a  man  is  best  off  if  he  be  thrown 

upon  his  own  resources  and  can  be  all  in  all  to   himself;  and 

Cicero  goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  a  man  who  is 

in  this  condition  cannot  fail  to  be  very  happy.      ,,  "!   J"^ ^ 

1        •      1  •  ir     u      1  .u  Mrf« -f   Company 

1  he  more  a  man  has  m  himselr,  the  less  others  Enough. 

can  be  to  him.     The  feeling  of  self-sufficiency ! 

it  is  that  which   restrains  those  whose  personal  value  is  in  itself 

great  riches,  from  such  considerable  sacrifices  as  are  demanded 

by   intercourse   with   the  world,   let  alone,  then,  from  adually 

practising   self-denial   by   going    out   of   their   way   to   seek  it. 

Ordinary  people  are  sociable  and  complaisant  just  from  the  very 

opposite  feeling;   to  bear   other's   company  is   easier   for    them 

than  to  bear  their  own.      Moreover,  resped:  is  not  paid  in  this 

world  to  that  which  has  real  merit;  it  is  reserved  for  that  which 

has   none.     So   retirement  is  at  once  a  proof  and  a  result  of 

243 


MY      FAVORITE 


being  distinguished  by  the  possession  of  meritorious  qualities. 
It  will  therefore  show  real  wisdom  on  the  part  of  any  one  who 
is  worth  anything  in  himself,  to  limit  his  requirements  as  may 
be  necessary,  in  order  to  preserve  or  extend  his  freedom,  and, — 
since  a  man  must  come  into  some  relations  with  his  fellow- 
men —  to  admit  them  to  his  intimacy  as  little  as  possible.  One 
man's  company  may  be  quite  enough,  if  he  is  clever;  but  where 
you  have  only  ordinary  people  to  deal  with,  it  is  advisable  to 
have  a  great  many  of  them,  so  that  some  advantage  may  accrue 
by  letting  them  all  work  together. 

When  men  of  the  better  class  form  a  society  for  promoting 
some  noble  or  ideal  aim,  the  result  almost  always  is  that  the 
innumerable  mob  of  humanity  comes  crowding  in,  too,  as  it 
always  does  everywhere,  like  vermin  —  their  objed:  being  to  try 
to  get  rid  of  boredom,  or  some  other  defe6t  of  their  nature; 
and  anything  that  will  effed;  that,  they  seize  upon  at  once,  with- 
out the  slightest  discrimination.  Some  of  them  will  slip  into 
that  society,  or  push  themselves  in,  and  then,  either  soon  destroy 
it  altogether,  or  alter  it  so  much  that  in  the  end  it  comes  to 
have  a  purpose  the  exadt  opposite  of  that  which  it  had  at  first. 

As  a  general  rule  it  may  be  said  that  a  man's  sociability 
stands  very  nearly  in  inverse  ratio  to  his  intellectual  value:  to 
say  that  "so  and  so"  is  very  unsociable  is  almost  tantamount  to 
saying  that  he  is  a  man  of  great  capacity. 

It  is  really  a  very  risky,  nay,  a  fatal  thing,  to  be  sociable; 
because   it    means   contact  with    natures,  the   great  majority   of 
which   are   bad    morally,  and   dull   or   perverse 
Solitude  versus      intellectually.     To  be  unsociable  is   not  to  care 
Sociability.         about  such  people;  and  to  have  enough  in  one- 
self to  dispense  with  the  necessity  of  their  com- 
pany is  a  great  piece  of  good  fortune;   because  almost  all  our 
sufferings  spring  from  having  to  do  with  other  people;  and  that 
destroys  the  peace  of  mind  which,  as   I    have  said,  comes  next 
after   health   in   the   elements  of  happiness.      Peace  of  mind  is 
impossible    without   a   considerable   amount    of  solitude.     The 
Cynics  renounced  all  private  property  in  order  to  attain  the  bliss 

244 


BOOK-SHELF 


of  having  nothing  to  trouble  them;  and  to  renounce  society 
with  the  same  objed:  is  the  wisest  thing  a  man  can  do.  The 
prime  reason  for  social  intercourse  is  mutual  need;  and  as  soon 
as  that  is  satisfied,  boredom  drives  people  together  once  more. 
If  it  were  not  for  these  two  reasons,  a  man  would  probably  eledt 
to  remain  alone;  if  only  because  solitude  is  the  sole  condition 
of  life,  which  gives  full  play  to  that  feeling  of  exclusive  import- 
ance which  every  man  has  in  his  own  eyes,  as  if  he  were  the 
only  person  in  the  world!  a  feeling  which  in  the  throng  and 
press  of  real  life  soon  shrivels  up  to  nothing,  getting,  at  every 
step,  a  painful  dementi. 

Rascals  are  always  sociable. 

Men   of  great   intelledl   live   in    the   world   without   really 
belonging  to  it;  and  so,  from  their  earliest  years,  they  feel  that 
there  is  a  perceptible  difference  between  them 
and  other  people.     But  it  is  only  gradually,  with     Intelka  Prefers 
the  lapse  of  years,  that  they  come  to  a  clear  un-  Isolation. 

derstanding  of  their  position.     Their  intellectual 
isolation  is  then  reinforced  by  a6hial  seclusion  in  their  manner 
of  life;  they  let  no  one  approach  who  is  not  in  some  degree 
emancipated  from  the  prevailing  vulgarity. 

After  sixty,  the  inclination  to  be  alone  grows  into  a  kind 
of  real  natural  instind;  for  at  that  age  everything  combines  in 
favour  of  it.  For,  provided  the  mind  retains  its  faculties,  the 
amount  of  knowledge  and  experience  we  have  acquired,  together 
with  the  facility  we  have  gained  in  the  use  of  our  powers,  makes 
it  then  more  than  ever  easy  and  interesting  to 
us  to  pursue  the  study  of  any  subjed:.  Old  Age  and 

As    a    matter    of    fad,    this    very    genuine  Solitude. 

privilege  of  old  age  is  one  which  can  be  enjoyed 
only  if  a  man  is   possessed  of  a  certain   amount  of  intelled;  it 
will  be  appreciated  most  of  all  where  there  is  real  mental  power; 
but  in  some  degree  by  every  one.      It  is   only   people  of  very 
barren  and  vulgar  nature  who  will  be  just  as  sociable  in  their  old 

245 


MY     FAVORITE 


age  as  they  were  in  their  youth.  But  then  they  become  trouble- 
some to  a  society  to  which  they  are  no  longer  suited,  and  at 
most  manage  to  be  tolerated ;  whereas  they  were  formerly  in 
great  request. 

Give  mature  and  repeated  consideration  to  any  plan  before 

you  proceed  to  carry  it  out;  and  even  after  you  have  thoroughly 

turned  it  over  in  your  mind,  make  some  con- 

R   h^TI  °'^  G       <^^ssion  to  the  incompetency  of  human  judgment; 

j^head.  ^^^   ^^    ^^Y   always    happen   that   circumstances 

which   cannot   be   investigated   or  foreseen  will 

come  in  and  upset  the  whole  of  your  calculation. 

Each  day  is  a  little  life;  every  waking  and  rising  a  little 
birth,  every  fresh  morning  a  little  youth,  every  going  to  rest  and 
sleep  a  little  death. 

You  should  regard  all  your  private  affairs  as  secrets,  and, 
in  respedt  to  them,  treat  your  acquaintances,  even  though  you 
are  on  good  terms  with  them,  as  perfect  strangers,  letting  them 
know  nothing  more  than  they  can  see  for  themselves.  For  in 
course  of  time,  under  altered  circumstances,  you  may  find  it  a 
disadvantage  that  they  know  even  the  most  harmless  things 
about  you. 

Pain  is  felt  to  be  something  positive,  and  hence  its  absence 
is  the  true  standard  of  happiness.  And  if,  over  and  above 
freedom  from  pain,  there  is  also  an  absence  of  boredom,  the 
essential  conditions  of  earthly  happiness  are  attained;  for  all  else 
is  chimerical. 

To  estimate  a  man's  condition  in  regard  to  happiness,  it  is 
necessary  to  ask,  not  what  things  please  him,  but  what  things 
trouble  him;  and  the  more  trivial  these  things  are  in  themselves, 
the  happier  the  man  will  be.  To  be  irritated  by  trifles  a  man 
must  be  well  off;  for  in  misfortune  trifles  are  unfelt. 

246 


BOOK-SHELF 


To  make  extensive  preparations  for  life  —  no  matter  what 
form  they  may  take  —  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  commonest  of 
follies.     Such    preparations   presuppose,  in    the 
first   place,  a  lone  life,  the  full   and   complete    ,,  /  ^^„  "  ^  ^^ . 

^  r  -1  I   1  r         Make  Preparations 

term  or  years  appomted  to  man  —  and  how  tew  r^^  i^f^^ 

reach  it!  and  even  if  it  be  reached,  it  is  still  too 
short  for  all  the  plans  that  have  been  made;  for  to  carry  them 
out  requires  more  time  than  was  thought  necessary  at  the  begin- 
ning. And  then  how  many  mischances  and  obstacles  stand  in 
the  way !  How  seldom  the  goal  is  ever  reached  in  human  affairs  ! 
And  lastly,  even  if  the  goal  be  reached,  the  changes  which  Time 
works  in  us  have  been  left  out  of  the  reckoning;  we  forget  that 
the  capacity,  whether  for  achievement  or  for  enjoyment,  does 
not  last  a  whole  lifetime. 

So  we  often  toil  for  things  which  are  no  longer  suited  to  us 
when  we  attain  them;  and  again,  the  years  we  spend  in  prepar- 
ing for  some  work,  unconsciously  rob  us  of  the  power  for  car- 
rying it  out.  How  often  it  happens  that  a  man  is  unable  to 
enjoy  the  wealth  which  he  acquired  at  so  much  trouble  and  risk, 
and  that  the  fruits  of  his  labour  are  reserved  for  others ;  or  that 
he  is  incapable  of  filling  the  position  which  he  has  won  after  so 
many  years  of  toil  and  struggle.  Fortune  has  come  too  late 
for  him;  or,  contrarily,  he  has  come  too  late  for  fortune, — 
when,  for  instance,  he  wants  to  achieve  great  things,  say,  in  art 
or  literature:  the  popular  taste  has  changed,  it  may  be;  a  new 
generation  has  grown  up,  which  takes  no  interest  in  his  work ; 
others  have  gone  a  shorter  way  and  got  the  start  of  him. 

Instead  of  always  thinking  about  our  plans  and  anxiously 
looking  to  the  future,  or  of  giving  ourselves  up  to  regret  for 
the  past,  we  should  never  forget  that  the  pres- 
ent is  the  only  reality,  the  only   certainty;  that       The  Present  h 
the  future  almost  always  turns  out  contrary  to    ^he  Only  Reality. 
our   expectations;  that  the   past,  too,  was  very 
different  from  what  we  suppose  it  to  have  been.      Both  the  past 
and  the  future  are,  on  the  whole,  of  less  consequence  than  we 

247 


MY      FAVORITE 


think.  Distance,  which  makes  objeds  look  small  to  the  out- 
ward eye,  makes  them  look  big  to  the  eye  of  thought.  The 
present  alone  is  true  and  adtual;  it  is  the  only  time  which  pos- 
sesses full  reality,  and  our  existence  lies  in  it  exclusively. 
Therefore  we  should  always  be  glad  of  it,  and  give  it  the  wel- 
come it  deserves,  and  enjoy  every  hour  that  is  bearable  by  its 
freedom  from  pain  and  annoyance  with  a  full  consciousness  of 
its  value.  We  shall  hardly  be  able  to  do  this,  if  we  make  a  wry 
face  over  the  failure  of  our  hopes  in  the  past,  or  over  our  anxiety 
for  the  future.  It  is  the  height  of  folly  to  refuse  the  present 
hour  of  happiness,  or  wantonly  to  spoil  it  by  vexation  at  by- 
gones or  uneasiness  about  what  is  to  come. 

There  is  a  time,  of  course,  for  forethought,  nay,  even  for 
repentance;  but  when  it  is  over  let  us  think  of  what  is  past  as 
of  something  to  which  we  have  said  farewell;  and  of  the 
future  as  of  that  which  lies  beyond  our  power,  in  the  lap  of 
the  gods. 

But  in  regard  to  the  present,  let  us  make  it  as  agreeable  as 
possible;  it  is  the  only  real  time  we  have.  Even  in  the  case  of 
evils  which  are  sure  to  happen,  the  time  at  which  they  will  hap- 
pen is  uncertain.  A  man  who  is  always  preparing  for  either 
class  of  evil  will  not  have  a  moment  of  peace  left  him. 

There   is   no  great   harm   in  the  fad:  that  a  man's  bodily 

strength   decreases  in  old  age,  unless,  indeed,  he   requires  it  to 

make  a  living.     To  be  poor  when  one  is  old  is 

,  „  a   great   misfortune.      If  a  man  is  secure  from 

A?e  and  Poverty.        ,   °  ,  •         i  •      i       i   i         i  i  i 

that,  and  retams  his  health,  old  age  may  be  a 
very  passable  time  of  life.  Its  chief  necessity 
is  to  be  comfortable  and  well  off;  and,  in  consequence,  money  is 
then  prized  more  than  ever,  because  it  is  a  substitute  for  failing 
strength.  In  the  place  of  wanting  to  see  things,  to  travel  and 
learn,  comes  the  desire  to  speak  and  teach.  At  that  time  of  life 
what  a  man  has  in  himself  is  of  greater  advantage  to  him  than 
ever  it  was  before. 


248 


BOOK-SHELF 


The  greatest  boon  that  follows  the  attainment  of  extreme 
old  age  is  euthanasia^  an  easy  death,  not  ushered  in  by  disease, 
and  free  from  all  pain  and  struggle.  For  let  a 
man  live  as  long  as  he  may,  he  is  never  con- 
scious of  any  moment  but  the  present,  one  and 
indivisible;  and  in  those  late  years  the  mind 
loses  more  every  day  by  sheer  forgetfulness  than  ever  it  gains 
anew. 


An  Easy  Death. 


249 


MY      FAVORITE 

SIR     WALTER    SCOTT. 


I 


On  the  death  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  1832,  his  entire  liter- 
ary remains  were  placed  at  the  disposal   of  his  son-in-law,  Mr. 
John  Gibson  Lockhart.     Among  these  remains 
„.   ^        ,        were  two  volumes  of  a  Journal  which  had  been 

His  Journal.         .  i       o-     tit   \  r  <^  r,  kit 

kept  by  Sir  Walter  from    1825  to   1832.      Mr. 

Lockhart  made  large  use  of  this  Journal  in  his 
admirable  life  of  his  father-in-law.  Writing,  however,  so  short 
a  time  after  Scott's  death,  he  could  not  use  it  so  freely  as  he 
might  have  wished,  and,  according  to  his  own  statement,  it  was 
"by  regard  for  the  feelings  of  living  persons"  that  he  both 
omitted  and  altered;  and  indeed  he  printed  no  chapter  of  the 
Diary  in  full.  There  is  no  longer  any  reason  why  the  Journal 
should  not  be  published  in  its  entirety,  and  by  the  permission 
of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Maxwell-Scott  it  now  appears  exadily  as 
Scott  left  it  —  but  for  the  correction  of  obvious  slips  of  the  pen 
and  the  omission  of  some  details  chiefly  of  family  and  domestic 
interest. 

THE    JOURNAL. 

(Edinburgh)    November    20,    1825.      I    have    all    my  life 
regretted  that  I  did  not  keep  a  regular  Journal.      I  have  myself 
lost   recolle6lion  of  much   that  was  interesting, 
SuggeiteJ  by       and   I   have  deprived  my  family  and   the  public 
Byron's  Notes.       of  some    curious    information,  by   not   carrying 
this   resolution   into   effet^t.      I   have   bethought 
me,  on  seeing   lately  some   volumes  of  Byron's  notes,  that  he 
probably  had  hit  upon    the  right  way  of  keeping  such  a  memo- 
randum-book,  by  throwing  aside  all   pretence  to  regularity  and 
order,  and  marking  down  events  just  as   they  occurred  to  recol- 
lection.     1  will    try  this  plan;  and    behold  I    have  a   handsome 
locked  volume,  such  as  might  serve  for  a  lady's  album. 

250 


BOOK-SHELF 


November  21st.     I  am  enamoured  of  my  Journal.     I  wish 
the  zeal    may  but  last.     Once   more   of  Ireland.     1   said  their 
poverty  was    not   exaggerated;    neither  is  their 
wit  —  nor  their  good-humour  —  nor  their  whim-  .  .  ,  „,.^ 

.      ,     ,  ..         o  ,     .  Irish  IVit. 

sical  absurdity  —  nor  their  courage. 

Wit.  I  gave  a  fellow  a  shilling  on  some 
occasion  when  sixpence  was  the  fee.  "  Remember  you  owe  me 
sixpence,  Pat."  "May  your  honour  live  till  I  pay  you!" 
There  was  courtesy  as  well  as  wit  in  this,  and  all  the  clothes  on 
Pat's  back  would  have  been  dearly  bought  by  the  sum  in  ques- 
tion. 

Good-Humour.     There  is  perpetual  kindness  in  the  Irish 
cabin;  butter-milk,   potatoes,  a   stool   is   offered,  or  a   stone  is 
rolled  that  your  honour  may  sit  down  and  be 
out  of  the  smoke    and  those  who   beg  every-  ^,,.,^G..^-//«...«r. 
where  else  seem  desirous  to  exercise  tree  hos- 
pitality  in    their    own    houses.      Their    natural 
disposition  is  turned  to  gaiety  and  happiness;   while  a  Scotch- 
man is  thinking  about  the  term-day,  or,  if  easy  on  that  subjed, 
about  hell  in  the  next  world  —  while  an   Englishman  is  making 
a  little  hell  of  his  own  in  the  present,  because  his  muffin  is  not 
well  roasted  —  Pat's   mind  is  always  turned  to  fun  and   ridicule. 
They  are  terribly  excitable,  to  be  sure,  and  will  murther  you  on 
shght  suspicion,  and  find  out  next  day  that  it  was  all  a  mistake, 
and  that  it  was  not  yourself  they  meant  to  kill  at  all  at  all. 

Dined  with  Sir  Robert  Dundas,  where  we  met   Lord  and 
Lady  Melville.      My  little  nieces  (ex  officio)  gave  us  some  pretty 
music.      I  do  not  know  and  cannot  utter  a  note 
of  music;  and  complicated  harmonies  seem  to     ^y^^y^^  Without 
me  a  babble  of  confused  though  pleasing  sounds.  Feeling. 

Yet  songs  and  simple  melodies,  especially  if  con- 
neded  with  words  and  ideas,  have  as  much  effed  on  me  as  on 
most  people.      But   then   I   hate  to  hear  a  young  person  sing 
without   feeling  and   expression  suited  to  the  song.      1   cannot 

251 


MY      FAVORITE 


bear  a  voice  that  has   no   more  life  in  it  than  a  pianoforte  or  a 
bugle-horn. 

There   is   something   about  all   the   fine  arts,  of  soul  and 
spirit,  which,  like  the  vital   principle  in  man,  defies  the  research 

of  the  most  critical   anatomist.     You  feel  where 

The  Touch  of      it  is  not,  yet  you  cannot  describe  what  it  is  you 

Genius.  want.     Sir  Joshua,  or  some  other  great  painter, 

was  looking  at  a  picture  on  which  much  pains 
had  been  bestowed — "Why,  yes,"  he  said  in  a  hesitating  man- 
ner, "it  is  very  clever,  very  well  done — can't  find  fault;  but  it 
wants  something;  it  wants  —  it  wants,  damn  me  —  it  wants 
that" — throwing  his  hand  over  his  head  and  snapping  his 
fingers.  Tom  Moore's  is  the  most  exquisite  warbling  I  ever 
heard.  Next  to  him,  David  Macculloch  for  Scots  songs.  The 
last,  when  a  boy  at  Dumfries,  was  much  admired  by  Burns,  who 
used  to  get  him  to  try  over  the  words  which  he  composed  to 
new  melodies.     He  is  brother  of  Macculloch  of  Ardwell. 

November  30th.      I  am  come  to  the  time  when  those  who 
look  out  of  the  windows  shall  be  darkened.     I  must  now  wear 
spectacles    constantly    in    reading    and    writing. 
First  Uses         though  till  this  winter   I    have  made  a  shift  by 
Spe^acks.         using  only  their  occasional  assistance.    Although 
my  health  cannot  be  better,  I  feel  my  lameness 
becomes  sometimes  painful,  and  often  inconvenient.     Walking 
on  the  pavement  or  causeway  gives  me  trouble,  and  I   am  glad 
when  I  have  accomplished  my  return  on  foot  from   the  Parlia- 
ment House  to  Castle  Street,  though  I  can  (taking  a  competent 
time,  as  old  Braxie  said  on   another   occasion)  walk  five  or  six 
miles  in  the  country   with   pleasure.     Well,  such   things  must 
come,   and    be    received   with    cheerful    submission.      My    early 
lameness    considered,   it   was    impossible    for   a    man    labouring 
under  a  bodily  impediment  to  have  been  stronger  or  more  adtive 
than  I  have  been,  and  that  for  twenty  or  thirty   years.     Seams 
will  slit,  and  elbows  will   out,  quoth   the   tailor;  and   as    I   was 
fifty-four  on    15th  August  last,  my  mortal   vestments   are   none 

252 


BOOK-SHELF 


of  the  newest.  Then  Walter,  Charles  and  Lockhart  are  as 
active  and  handsome  young  fellows  as  you  can  see;  and  while 
they  enjoy  strength  and  activity  I  can  hardly  be  said  to  want  it. 
I  have  perhaps  all  my  life  set  an  undue  value  on  these  gifts. 
Yet  it  does  appear  to  me  that  high  and  independent  feelings 
are  naturally,  though  not  uniformly  or  inseparably,  connected 
with  bodily  advantages.  Strong  men  are  usually  good-humoured, 
and  adive  men  often  display  the  same  elasticity  of  mind  as  of 
body.  These  are  superiorities,  however,  that  are  often  misused. 
But  even  for  these  things  God  shall  call  us  to  judgment. 

December  7th.  I  have  much  to  comfort  me  in  the  present 
asped:  of  my  family.  My  eldest  son,  independent  in  fortune, 
united  to  an  affed;ionate  wife  —  and  of  good 
hopes  in  his  profession ;  my  second,  with  a  good  Domestic  Matters 
deal  of  talent,  and  in  the  way,  I  trust,  of  culti-  ^"  Harmony. 
vating  it  to  good  purpose;  Anne,  an  honest, 
downright,  good  Scots  lass,  in  whom  I  would  only  wish  to  cor- 
real a  spirit  of  satire;  and  Lockhart  is  Lockhart,  to  whom  1  can 
most  willingly  confide  the  happiness  of  the  daughter  who  chose 
him,  and  whom  he  has  chosen.  My  dear  wife,  the  partner  of 
early  cares  and  successes,  is,  I  fear,  frail  in  health  —  though  I 
trust  and  pray  she  may  see  me  out.  Indeed,  if  this  trouble- 
some complaint  goes  on — it  bodes  no  long  existence.  My 
brother  was  affefted  with  the  same  weakness,  which  before  he 
was  fifty  brought  on  mortal  symptoms.  The  poor  Major  had 
been  rather  a  free  liver.  But  my  father,  the  most  abstemious 
of  men,  save  when  the  duties  of  hospitality  required  him  to  be 
very  moderately  free  with  his  bottle,  and  that  was  very  seldom, 
had  the  same  weakness  which  now  annoys  me,  and  he,  I  think, 
was  not  above  seventy  when  cut  off.  Square  the  odds,  and 
good-night,  Sir  Walter,  about  sixty.  I  care  not,  if  I  leave  my 
name  unstained,  and  my  family  properly  settled. 

December  14th.     Affairs  very  bad  in  the  money-market  in 
London.      It  must  come  here,  and  I  have  far  too  many  engage- 

253 


MY      FAVORITE 


oTA—xSi 


;^^] 


ments  not  to  feel  it.     To  end  the  matter  at  once,  I  intend  to 
borrow  ^10,000,  with  which  my  son's  marriage  contract  allows 
me  to  charge  my  estate.     At  Whitsunday  and 
Th   F       CI  d     Martinmas   I   will  have  enough  to  pay  up  the 
incumbrance    of    ^3,000    due    to    old    Moss's 
daughter,  and  ;^'5,ooo  to    Misses  Ferguson,  in 
whole  or  part.     This  will  enable  us  to  dispense  in  a  great  meas- 
ure with  bank  assistance,  and  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder.     I  do  not 
know  whether  it  is  this  business  which  makes  me  a  little  bilious, 
or   rather   the  want  of  exercise  during  the   season  of  late,  and 
change  of  the  weather  to   too  much   heat.       Thank  God,  my 
circumstances   are   good, —  upon   a   fair   balance   which    I    have 
made,  certainly  not  less  than  ^40,000  or  nearly  ^^50,000  above 
the  world.      But  the  sun  and   moon   shall   dance   on  the  green 
ere   carelessness,   or   hope   of  gain,   or  facility  of  getting   cash, 
shall  make  me  go  too  deep  again,  were  it  but  for  the   disquiet 
of  the  thing. 

December  i8th.      Ballantyne  called  on   me   this  morning. 
My  extremity  has  come.     Cadell  has  received  letters  from  Lon- 
don which  all  but  positively  announce  the  fail- 
_.       .  ,  rx.  ure  of  Hurst  &  Robinson,  so  that  Constable  &" 

tmancial  Disaster.     „  ^  ,,  .    '  .  , 

Co.  must  Follow,  and  1  must  go  with  poor 
James  Ballantyne  for  company.  I  suppose  it 
will  involve  my  all.  But  if  they  leave  me  ^500,  I  can  still  make 
it  j^ijOOO  or  ^1,200  a  year.  And  if  they  take  my  salaries  of 
^1,300  and  X300,  they  cannot  but  give  me  something  out  of 
them.  I  have  been  rash  in  anticipating  funds  to  buy  land,  but 
then  I  made  from  ^5,000  to  ^{^  10,000  a  year,  and  land  was  my 
temptation.  I  think  nobody  can  lose  a  penny  —  that  is  one 
comfort.  Men  will  think  pride  has  had  a  fall.  Let  them 
indulge  their  own  pride  in  thinking  that  my  fall  makes  them 
higher,  or  seems  so,  at  least.  I  have  the  satisfaftion  to  recollect 
that  my  prosperity  has  been  of  advantage  to  many,  and  that 
some  at  least  will  forgive  my  transient  wealth  on  account  of  the 
innocence  of  my  intentions,  and  my  real  wish   to  do   good  to 


I 


254 


BOOK-SHELF 


the  poor.  This  news  will  make  sad  hearts  at  Darnick,  and  in 
the  cottages  of  Abbotsford,  which  I  do  not  nourish  the  least 
hope  of  preserving.  It  has  been  my  Delilah,  and  so  I  have 
often  termed  it;  and  now  the  recollection  of  the  extensive 
woods  I  planted,  and  the  walks  I  have  formed,  from  which 
strangers  must  derive  both  the  pleasure  and  profit,  will  ex- 
cite feelings  likely  to  sober  my  gayest  moments.  I  have  half 
resolved  never  to  see  the  place  again.  How  could  I  tread  my 
hall  with  such  a  diminished  crest?  How  live  a  poor,  indebted 
man,  where  I  was  once  wealthy,  the  honoured?  My  children 
are  provided;  thank  God  for  that.  I  was  to  have  gone  there 
on  Saturday  in  joy  and  prosperity  to  receive  my  friends.  My 
dogs  will  wait  for  me  in  vain.  It  is  foolish,  but  the  thoughts 
of  parting  from  these  dumb  creatures  have  moved  me  more 
than  any  of  the  painful  reflections  I  have  put  down.  Poor 
things,  I  must  get  them  kind  masters ;  there  may  be  yet  those  who 
loving  me  may  love  my  dog  because  it  has  been  mine.  1  must 
end  this,  or  I  shall  lose  the  tone  of  mind  with 

which  men  should  meet  distress.  Affeaionfor 

His  Dogs, 

I  find  my  dogs'  feet  on  my  knees.  I  hear 
them  whining  and  seeking  me  everywhere  —  this  is  nonsense, 
but  it  is  what  they  would  do  could  they  know  how  things  are. 
Poor  Will  Laidlaw!  Poor  Tom  Purdie!  this  will  be  news  to 
wring  your  heart,  and  many  a  poor  fellow's  besides  to  whom 
my  prosperity  was  daily  bread. 

Ballantyne  behaves  like  himself,  and  sinks  his  own  ruin  in 
contemplating  mine.     I   tried  to  enrich  him  indeed,  and   now 
all  —  all  is  gone.       He   will    have   the   Journal 
still,  that  is  a  comfort,  for  sure  they  cannot  find      Ballantyne  and 
a  better  editor.     They  —  alas!  who  will  they  be —  Cade II. 

the  unbekannten  Obern  who  are  to  dispose  of  my 
all  as  they  will?     Some  hard-eyed  banker;  some  of  those  men 
of  millions  whom  I  described.     Cadell  showed  more  kind  and 
personal   feeling   to  me  than  I  thought  he  had  possessed.      He 


MY      FAVORITE 


^^^ 


says  there  are  some  properties  of  works  that  will  revert  to  me, 
the  copy-money  not  being  paid,  but  it  cannot  be  any  very  great 
matter,  I  should  think. 

Another  person  did  not  afford  me  all  the  sympathy  I 
expedted,  perhaps  because  I  seemed  to  need  little  support,  yet 
that  is  not  her  nature,  which  is  generous  and  kind.  She  thinks 
that  I  have  been  imprudent,  trusting  men  so  far.  Perhaps  so, 
but  what  could  I  do?  I  must  sell  my  books  to  some  one,  and 
these  folks  gave  me  the  largest  price;  if  they  had  kept  their 
ground  I  could  have  brought  myself  round  fast  enough  by  the 
plan  of  14th  December.  I  now  view  matters  at  the  very  worst, 
and  suppose  that  my  all  must  go  to  supply  the  deficiencies  of 
Constable.  I  fear  it  must  be  so.  His  connexions  with  Hurst 
and  Robinson  have  been  so  intimate  that  they  must  be  largely 
involved.  This  is  the  worst  of  the  concern;  our  own  is  com- 
paratively plain  sailing. 

An  odd  thought  strikes  me:  when   I   die  will  the  Journal 

of  these  days  be  taken  out  of  the  ebony  cabinet  at  Abbotsford, 

and  read  as  the  transient  pout  of  a  man  worth 

n     '^     J 1         /6o,ooo,  with   wonder   that    the   well-seeming 
Hecotne  of  the  .  ^ 

Journal?  Baronet  should  ever  have  experienced  such  a 
hitch?  Or  will  it  be  found  in  some  obscure 
lodging-house,  where  the  decayed  son  of  chivalry  has  hung  up 
his  scutcheon  for  some  20s  a  week,  and  where  one  or  two  old 
friends  will  look  grave  and  whisper  to  each  other,  "Poor  gentle- 
man," "A  well-meaning  man,  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own, 
thought  his  parts  could  never  wear  out,  family  poorly  left;  pity 
he  took  that  foolish  title!"     Who  can  answer  this  question? 

December  22d.  I  wrote  six  of  my  close  pages  yesterday, 
which  is  about  twenty-four  pages  in  print.  What  is  more,  I 
think  it  comes  off  twangingly.  The  story  is  so  very  interesting 
in  itself,  that  there  is  no  fear  of  the  book  answering.  Superficial 
it  must  be,  but  I  do  not  disown  the  charge.  Better  a  superfi- 
cial book,  which  brings  well  and  strikingly  together  the  known 


256 


BOOK-SHELF 


and  acknowledged  fads,  than  a  dull  boring  narrative,  pausing  to 
see    further  into  a  millstone  at  every  moment  than  the  nature 
of  the  millstone   admits.     Nothing   is   so   tire- 
some as  walking  through  some  beautiful  scene       A  Little  Se/f- 
with  a  minute  philosopher,  a  botanist,  or  pebble-  Criticism. 

gatherer,  who  is  eternally  calling  your  attention 
from  the  grand  features  of  the  natural  scenery  to  look  at  grasses 
and  chucky-stones.  Yet  in  their  way,  they  give  useful  informa- 
tion; and  so  does  the  minute  historian.  Gad,  I  think  that  will 
look  well  in  the  preface.  My  bile  is  quite  gone.  I  really 
believe  it  arose  from  mere  anxiety.  What  a  wonderful  con- 
nexion between  the  mind  and  body! 

December  27th.     Worked  at   Pepys  in  the  evening,  with 
the  purpose  of  review  for  Lockhart.      Notwithstanding  the  de- 
pressing effefts  of  the  calomel,  I  feel  the  pleasure 
of  being  alone  and   uninterrupted.     Few  men,      Faculty  of  Not 
leading  a  quiet  life,  and  without  any  strong  or       Being  Bored. 
highly  varied  change  of  circumstances,  have  seen 
more  variety  of  society  than  I — few  have  enjoyed  it  more,  or 
been  bored^   as  it   is   called,  less  by   the   company  of   tiresome 
people.     I   have  rarely,  if  ever,  found  any  one  out  of  whom   I 
could  not  extrad  amusement  or  edification ;   and  were  I  obliged 
to  account  for  hints  afforded  on  such  occasions,  I   should  make 
an  ample  dedu6lion  from  my  inventive  powers.     Still,  however, 
from  the  earliest  time  I  can  remember,  I  preferred  the   pleasure 
of  being   alone  to  waiting  for  visitors,  and    have  often  taken  a 
bannock  and  a  bit  of  cheese  to  the  wood  or  hill,  to  avoid  dining 
with  company. 

As  I  grew  from  boyhood  to  manhood  I  saw  this  would 
not  do;  and  that  to  gain  a  place  in  men's  esteem  I  must 
mix  and  bustle  with  them.  Pride  and  an  excitation  of  spirits 
supplied  the  real  pleasure  which  others  seem  to  feel  in  society, 
and  certainly  upon  many  occasions  it  was  real.  Still,  if  the 
question  was,  eternal  company,  without  the  power  of  retiring 
within  yourself,  or  solitary  confinement  for  life,  I   should  say, 

257 


MY      FAVORITE 


"Turnkey,  lock  the  cell!"  My  life,  though  not  without  its 
fits  of  waking  and  strong  exertion,  has  been  a  sort  of  dream, 
spent  in  — 

«'  Chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy." 

I  have  worn  a  wishing-cap,  the  power  of  which  has  been  to 

divert  present  griefs  by  a  touch  of  the  wand  of  imagination,  and 

gild  over  the  future  prosped:  by  prospers  more 

The  Wishing       fair  than  can  ever  be  realized.     Somewhere  it  is 

C'Jp-  said  that  this  castle-building  —  this  wielding  of 

the  aerial  trowel  —  is  fatal  to  exertions  in  a6tual 

life.      I  cannot  tell ;   I   have  not  found  it  so.      I   cannot,  indeed, 

say  like   Madame  Genlis,  that  in  the  imaginary  scenes  in  which 

I  have  adled  a  part  I  ever  prepared  myself  for  anything  which 

actually  befell  me;  but  I  have  certainly  fashioned  out  much  that 

made  the  present  hour  pass  pleasantly  away,  and  much  that  has 

enabled    me   to   contribute   to   the    amusement    of   the    public. 

Since  I  was  five  years  old  I  cannot  remember  the  time  when   I 

had  not  some  ideal  part  to  play  for  my  own  solitary  amusement. 

January  22,  1826.      I  feel  neither  dishonoured  nor  broken 
down  by  the  bad  —  now  really  bad  —  news  I   have  received.     I 
have  walked    my   last  on   the  domains   I   have 
Reconciled  to       planted  —  sate  the  last  time  in  the  halls   I   have 
His  Fate.  built.      But  death  would   have  taken  them  from 

me  if  misfortune  had  spared  them.  My  poor 
people  whom  I  loved  so  well!  There  is  just  another  die  to 
turn  up  against  me  in  this  run  of  ill-luck;  /'.  ^.,  if  I  should  break 
my  magic  wand  in  the  fall  from  this  elephant,  and  lose  my  pop- 
ularity with  my  fortune.  Then  Woodstock  and  Bony  may  both 
go  to  the  paper-maker,  and  I  may  take  to  smoking  cigars  and 
drinking  grog,  or  turn  devotee,  and  intoxicate  the  brain  another 
way.  In  prosped  of  absolute  ruin,  I  wonder  if  they  would  let 
me  leave  the  Court  of  Session.      I  would  like,  methinks,  to  go 

abroad, 

"And  lay  my  bones  far  from  the  Tweedy 

258 


BOOK-SHELF 


But  I  find  my  eyes  moistening,  and  that  will  not  do.  I  will  not 
yield  without  a  fight  for  it.  It  is  odd,  when  I  set  myself  to 
work  doggedly,  as  Dr.  Johnson  would  say,  I  am  exadly  the  same 
man  that  I  ever  was,  neither  low-spirited  nor  distrait.  In  pros- 
perous times  I  have  sometimes  felt  my  fancy  and  powers  of 
language  flag,  but  adversity  is  to  me  at  least  a  tonic  and  bracer; 
the  fountain  is  awakened  from  its  inmost  recesses,  as  if  the  spirit 
of  affliction  had  troubled  it  in  his  passage. 

January  24,  1826.  I  went  to  the  Court  for  the  first  time 
to-day,  and,  like  the  man  with  the  large  nose,  thought  everybody 
was  thinking  of  me  and  my  mishaps.  Many 
were,  undoubtedly,  and  all  rather  regrettingly ;  Vassal  to  the 
some  obviously  affeded.  It  is  singular  to  see  Public  for  Life. 
the  difference  of  men's  manner  whilst  they  strive 
to  be  kind  or  civil  in  their  way  of  addressing  me.  Some  smile  as 
they  wish  me  good-day,  as  if  to  say,  "Think  nothing  about  it, 
my  lad;  it  is  quite  out  of  our  thoughts."  Others  greeted  me  with 
the  affeded  gravity  which  one  sees  and  despises  at  a  funeral. 
The  best  bred — all,  I  believe,  meaning  equally  well — just 
shook  hands  and  went  on.  A  foolish  puff  in  the  papers,  calling 
on  men  and  gods  to  assist  a  popular  author,  who,  having 
choused  the  public  of  many  thousands,  had  not  the  sense  to 
keep  wealth  when  he  had  it.  If  I  am  hard  pressed  and  meas- 
ures used  against  me,  I  must  use  all  means  of  legal  defense,  and 
subscribe  myself  bankrupt  in  a  petition  for  sequestration.  It  is 
the  course  I  would  have  advised  a  client  to  take,  and  would 
have  the  effed  of  saving  my  land,  which  is  secured  by  my  son's 
contract  of  marriage.  I  might  save  my  library,  etc.,  by  assist- 
ance of  friends,  and  bid  my  creditor's  defiance.  But  for  this  I 
would,  in  a  court  of  honour,  deserve  to  lose  my  spurs.  No,  if 
they  permit  me,  I  will  be  their  vassal  for  life,  and  dig  in  the 
mine  of  my  imagination  to  find  diamonds  (or  what  may  sell  for 
such)  to  make  good  my  engagements,  not  to  enrich  myself. 
And  this  from  no  reludance  to  allow  myself  to  be  called  the 
Insolvent,  which  I  probably  am,  but  because  I  will  not  put  out 

259 


MY      FAVORITE 


of  the  power  of  my  creditors  the  resources,  mental  or  literary, 
which  yet  remain  to  me. 

July  8,  1827.      I  did  little  to-day  but  arrange   papers,  and 

put  bills,  receipts,  etc,  into  apple-pie  order.      I   believe  the  fair 

prospe6l    I    have  of  clearing  off   some  incum- 

Thorns  in  brances,  which  are  like  thorns  in  my   flesh,  nay. 

His  Flesh.         in  my  very  eye,  contribute  much  to  this.     1  did 

not   even   correct  proof-sheets;  nay,  could   not, 

for   I    have   cancelled  two  sheets,  instante  Jacobo^  and   I   myself 

being  of  his  opinion;  for,  as  I  said  yesterday,  we  must  and  will 

take  pains.     The  fiddle-faddle  of  arranging  all  the  things  was 

troublesome,  but  they  give  a  good  account  of  my  affairs.     The 

money  for  the  necessary  payments  is  ready,  and  therefore  there 

is   a  sort  of  pleasure  which   does    not   arise   out  of  any   mean 

source,  since  it  has  for  its  objed  the   prospeft  of  doing  justice 

and  achieving  independence. 

July  23,  1827.     Constable's  death  might  have  been  a  most 
important  thing  to  me  if  it  had  happened  some  years  ago,  and  I 
should  then   have   lamented   it   much.     He  has 
Injuries  lived  to  do  me  some  injury;  yet,  excepting  the 

l)fath  '^^^  £,S->^^'^->  ^  t^i"'^  most  unintentionally.     He 

was  a  prince  of  booksellers;  his  views  sharp, 
powerful,  and  liberal ;  too  sanguine,  however,  and,  like  many  bold 
and  successful  schemers,  never  knowing  when  to  stand  or  stop, 
and  not  always  calculating  his  means  to  his  objeds  with  mercantile 
accuracy.  He  was  very  vain,  for  which  he  had  some  reason,  hav- 
ing raised  himself  to  great  commercial  eminence,  as  he  might 
also  have  attained  great  wealth  with  good  management.  He 
knew,  I  think,  more  of  the  business  of  a  bookseller  in  planning 
and  executing  popular  works  than  any  man  of  his  time.  In 
books  themselves  he  had  much  bibliographical  information,  but 
none  whatever  that  could  be  termed  literary.  He  knew  the 
rare  volumes  of  his  library  not  only  by  his  eye,  but  by  the 
touch,  when   blindfolded.     Thomas   Thomson   saw   him  make 

260 


BOOK-SHELF 


this  experiment,  and  that  it  might  be  complete  placed  in  his 
hand  an  ordinary  volume  instead  of  one  of  these  libri  rariores. 
He  said  that  he  had  over-estimated  his  memory;  he  could  not 
recoiled  that  volume.  Constable  was  a  violent-tempered  man 
with  those  that  he  dared  use  freedom  with.  He  was  easily  over- 
awed by  people  of  consequence,  but,  as  usual,  took  it  out  of 
those  whom  poverty  made  subservient  to  him.  Yet  he  was  gen- 
erous and  far  from  bad-hearted.  In  person  good-looking,  but 
very  corpulent  latterly;  a  large  feeder  and  deep  drinker  till  his 
health  became  weak.  He  died  of  water  in  the  chest,  which  the 
natural  strength  of  his  constitution  set  long  at  defiance.  I  have 
no  great  reason  to  regret  him;  yet  I  do.  If  he  deceived  me,  he 
also  deceived  himself. 

December  24,  1827.      My  refledions  on  entering  my   own 

gate  were  of  a  very  different  and  more  pleasing  cast  than  those 

with  which  I  left  my  house  about  six  weeks  ago. 

I  was  then  in  doubt  whether   I   should  fly  my        , .  ^   '^^^, 

1111  J  Lining  to  the 

country  or  become  avowedly  bankrupt,  and  sur-  Cloud. 

render  my  library  and  household  furniture,  with 
the  life-rent  of  my  estate,  to  sale.  A  man  of  the  world  will  say 
I  had  better  done  so.  No  doubt,  had  I  taken  this  course  at 
once,  I  might  have  employed  the  ^25,000  which  I  made  since 
the  insolvency  of  Constable  and  Robinson's  houses  in  com- 
pounding my  debts.  But  I  could  not  have  slept  sound  as  I 
now  can,  under  the  comfortable  impression  of  receiving  the 
thanks  of  my  creditors  and  the  conscious  feeling  of  discharging 
my  duty  like  a  man  of  honour  and  honesty.  I  see  before  me 
a  long,  tedious  and  dark  path,  but  it  leads  to  true  fame  and  stain- 
less reputation.  If  I  die  in  the  harrows,  as  is  very  likely,  I  shall 
die  with  honour;  if  I  achieve  my  task,  I  shall  have  the  thanks 
of  all  concerned,  and  the  approbation  of  my  own  conscience. 
And  so  I   think  I  can  fairly  face  the  return  of  Christmas  Day. 

December  30,  1827.      Looking  back  to  the  conclusion  of 
1826,  I  observe  that  the  last  year  ended  in  trouble  and  sickness, 

261 


MY      FAVORITE 


with  pressures  for   the  present,  and  gloomy  prospers  for  the 
future.     The  sense  of  a  great  privation  so  lately  sustained,  to- 
gether with  the  very  doubtful  and  clouded  nature 
Rowing  with       of  my  private  affairs  pressed  hard  upon  my  mind. 
the  Tide.  \    am   now  perfedly  well   in   constitution;   and 

though  I  am  still  on  troubled  waters,  yet  I  am 
rowing  with  the  tide,  and  less  than  the  continuation  of  my  exer- 
tions of  1827  may,  with  God's  blessing,  carry  me  successfully 
through  1828,  when  we  may  gain  a  more  open  sea,  if  not  exactly 
a  safe  port.  Above  all,  my  children  are  well.  Sophia's  situ- 
ation excites  some  natural  anxiety  ;  but  it  is  only  the  accom- 
plishment of  the  burthen  imposed  on  her  sex.  Walter  is  happy 
in  the  view  of  his  majority,  on  which  matter  we  have  favourable 
hopes  from  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Anne  is  well  and  happy. 
Charles's  entry  upon  life  under  the  highest  patronage,  and  in  a 
line  for  which  I  hope  he  is  qualified,  is  about  to  take  place 
presently.  For  all  these  great  blessings  it  becomes  me  well  to  be 
thankful  to  God,  who  in  His  good  time  and  good  pleasure  sends 
us  good  as  well  as  evil. 

May  8,  1 83  I.  I  have  suffered  terribly,  that  is  the  truth, 
rather  in  body  than  in  mind,  and  I  often  wish  I  could  lie  down 
and  sleep  without  waking.  But  I  will  fight  it  out  if  I  can.  It 
would  argue  too  great  an  attachment  of  consequence  to  my  liter- 
ary labors  to  sink  under.  Did  I  know  how  to  begin,  I  would 
begin  this  very  day,  although  I  knew  I  should  sink  at  the  end. 
After  all,  this  is  but  a  fear  and  faintness  of  heart,  though  of 
another  kind  from  that  which  trembleth  at  a  loaded  pistol.  My 
bodily  strength  is  terribly  gone:   perhaps  my  mental,  too! 

May  II,  1 83 1.  Very  weak,  scarce  able  to  crawl  about 
without  the  pony  —  lifted  on  and  off" — and  unable  to  walk  half 
a  mile  save  with  great  pain. 

May  12,  1 83  I.  Resolved  to  lay  by  Robert  of  Paris,  and 
take  it  up  when  I  can  work.     Thinking  on  it  really   makes  my 

262 


BOOK-SHELF 


head  swim,  and  that  is  not  safe.      Miss   Ferrier  comes  out  to 

us.     This  gifted   personage,  besides   having  great   talents,  has 

conversation  the  least  exigeante  of  any  author, 

female  at  least,  whom  I   have  ever  seen  among       ,..     _ 

the  long  list   I    have   encountered,  simple,  full 

of  humour  and  exceedingly  ready  at  repartee; 

and  all  this  without  the  least  affedation  of  the  blue  stocking. 

Lockhart  describes  the  closing  scene  in  Scott's  life  as  fol- 
lows: "As    I    was   dressing   on   the   morning  of  Monday,  the 
seventeenth  of  September,  1832,  Nicolson  came 
into  my  room,  and  told  me  that  his  master  had        The  Closing 
awoke  in  a  state  of  composure  and   conscious-  Scene. 

ness,  and  wished  to  see  me  immediately.  I 
found  him  entirely  himself,  though  in  the  last  extreme  of  feeble- 
ness. His  eye  was  clear  and  calm  —  every  trace  of  the  wild 
fire  of  delirium  extinguished.  *  Lockhart,'  he  said,  '  I  may 
have  but  a  minute  to  speak  to  you.  My  dear,  be  a  good  man 
—  be  virtuous  —  be  religious  —  be  a  good  man.  Nothing  else 
will  give  you  any  comfort  when  you  come  to  lie  here.*  He 
paused,  and  I  said,  'Shall  I  send  for  Sophia  and  Anne? '  'No,' 
said  he,  'don't  disturb  them.  Poor  souls!  I  know  they  were 
up  all  night — God  bless  you  all.'  With  this  he  sunk  into  a 
very  tranquil  sleep,  and,  indeed,  he  scarcely  afterwards  gave  any 
sign  of  consciousness,  except  for  an  instant  on  the  arrival  of 
his  sons." 


263 


MY      FAVORITE 


CHARLES    W.     STEARNS 


It  happened,  several  years  ago,  that  I  was  one  of  a  crowd 
coming  out  of  a  New  York  theatre,  and  thinking  to  myself, 
how  thoroughly  I  had  enjoyed  the  play,  when 
Absorbed  in  near  the  door  I  heard  some  one  say,  "  Well, 
Business.  that's  enough  for  me;   I  don't  want  to  hear  any 

more  such  stuff  as  that."  And  what  do  you, 
reader,  suppose  was  the  piece  that  had  failed  to  please  at  least 
this  one  individual,  and  perhaps  many  others?  It  was  Shake- 
speare's Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  put  upon  the  stage  in  the 
most  liberal  manner,  and  conscientiously  performed  by  an  excel- 
lent company.  I  had  rather  more  than  a  nodding  acquaintance 
with  this  dissatisfied  gentleman,  and  perhaps  his  remark  was 
intended  as  much  for  my  ear  as  for  his  intelligent,  bright-eyed 
little  wife.  She  merely  replied,  glancing  at  me,  "Probably  the 
Doctor  won't  agree  with  you.  But  don't,  Fred,  be  always  tell- 
ing what  you  think;  you  don't  give  time  enough  to  such  things 
to  appreciate  them." 

I  knew  enough  of  this  man  to  be  aware  that  he  was  full  of 
average  intelligence  and  a  fair  education.  He  could  write  off- 
hand, and  correc^tly  enough,  a  letter,  or  anything  else  he  had 
occasion  to  compose.  He  was  liberal,  had  a  relish  for  humor, 
was  a  good  observer,  and  told  a  story  well.  Having  plenty  of 
common  sense  about  such  things  as  concerned  himself,  he  never 
affefted  an  interest  in  what  he  did  not  understand,  or  really  cared 
nothing  about.  I  knew  that,  when  a  boy,  he  had  been  for  years 
at  a  very  respectable  "  academy  "  in  his  native  village,  where  boys 
were  also  taught  some  of  the  higher  branches.  But  he  had  escaped 
as  early  as  possible  from  the  narrow  sphere  of  the  school-room,  to 
enter  upon  the  game  or  business  of  life.  And  the  business  of 
life  was  indeed  to  him  a  game  —  in  which  the  chances  were  to  be 
studied,  opportunities  boldly  seized,  and  finesse  often  employed. 

264 


BOOK-SHELF 


He  had  been  successful,  was  living  in  a  good  house,  while 
his  wife  had  her  coupe,  her  India  shawls,  and  her  diamonds. 
That  was  more  than  ten  years  ago.  But  his  fortunes  have  since 
changed,  and  he  is  now  one  of  several  dozen  clerks  in  a  large 
establishment,  and  lives,  quite  contentedly,  perhaps,  with  his 
family  in  the  fourth  story  of  a  boarding-house,  to  which  he 
often  carries,  for  his  evening  recreation,  an  armful  of  his  em- 
ployer's account-books. 

The  change  in  this  man's  fortunes  was  certainly  not  dire6tly 
owing  to  his  being  incapable  of  relishing  one  of  Shakespeare's 
plays.      But   yet  there  is  a  connection  between 
the  two  fads.     This  may  be  illustrated  by  the   J^"' j^^lf^i 

c  ^u       -j-'jiT  •         j-u      Time  for  Thinking 

case  or  another  individual  1  am  acquainted  with,  ^^^  Readin? 
now  over  seventy  years  old,  and  whose  whole 
life  has  been  a  success,  a  pleasant  journey.  Nearly  forty  years 
ago,  I  can  recoiled,  he  kept  a  hardware  store  in  a  thriving  inland 
country  town,  and  only  of  late  years  has  his  name  disappeared 
from  over  the  door.  One  of  his  sons  and  myself  were  cronies 
together,  and  had  the  run  of  each  other's  houses.  Among  the 
most  distinct  of  my  very  early  recolledions,  is  their  quiet  fire- 
side of  a  winter's  evening,  where  the  father  used  often  to  read 
to  his  wife  from  a  set  of  Aiken's  "  British  Poets,"  and  very 
often,  too,  from  Shakespeare's  plays,  which  he  had  bought  at  a 
book-audion  in  New  York,  whither  he  went  on  business  just 
twice  every  year.  In  fad:,  he  never  returned  from  the  city  with- 
out bringing  a  few  books  in  that  same  black  leather  trunk;  and 
we  boys  used  to  be  in  great  haste  to  get  at  them,  to  find  if  there 
were  any  engravings  or  pidures  in  them.  Among  those  books 
were  not  only  Gibbon,  Hume,  Robertson,  Johnson,  Goldsmith, 
and  the  S-pe£lator,  but  also  some  of  Scott's  earlier  and  best 
novels,  and  even  a  ten-volume  copy  of  Byron.  For  this 
country  hardware  dealer  was  no  Puritan,  though  descended  by 
father  and  mother  from  Puritan  stock  that  had  been  in  the 
country  over  two  hundred  years.  Moreover,  these  same  books, 
like  the  bricks  in  the  chimney  that  Jack  Cade  built,  "are  alive 
at  this  day  to  testify  it;"  for  I  have  seen   them  within   the  past 

265 


MY     FAVORITE 


year,  and  their  owner,  too.  He  is  by  far  the  wealthiest  man  in 
the  county,  made  so  by  the  common  course  of  trade,  followed 
in  a  routine  way,  without  speculation,  grasping,  or  overreaching; 
but,  as  I  suppose,  by  simply  keeping  what,  more  or  less,  daily 
came  to  his  hand.  Nor  do  I  believe  there  was  ever  any  parsi- 
mony or  meanness  in  his  management;  but,  as  far  back  as  I 
can  recoiled:,  the  expenditure  in  his  family  was  more  liberal, 
apparently,  than  in  any  other  of  that  small  community.  Pros- 
perity, tranquillity  and  good  health  have  now  made  his  figure 
rather  portly,  which,  with  a  bright  eye  and  countenance  made 
intelligent  by  the  habit  of  reading,  combine  altogether  to  give 
him  a  somewhat  patrician  look.  He  has  travelled  with  his 
family  in  Europe,  and  been  once  in  Congress.  He  is  very  fond 
of  a  rubber  of  whist,  for  which  he  has  plenty  of  time,  and  his 
most  weighty  cares  now  are,  a  model  farm  with  choice  imported 
stock.  His  children  and  grandchildren  are  prouder  and  fonder 
of  him  than  of  all  else  that  belongs  to  them. 

The  different  result  in  the  careers  of  these  two  men  is,  I 
contend,  chiefly  owing  to  one  of  them  having  been  able,  and 
the  other  not  able,  to  sit  down  quietly  for  an  hour  with  a  book 
in  his  hand.  One  looked  upon  business  as  a  necessity,  a  duty, 
to  be  steadily  and  carefully  attended  to  day  by  day,  and  from 
which  some  change  or  recreation  was  to  be  as  regularly  sought. 
The  other  looked  upon  business  as  a  game  to  be  played  boldly 
and  smartly,  and  in  such  a  way  that  its  excitements  made  all 
other  things  seem  tedious  and  insipid.  The  poor  fool  who  thus 
pursues  it,  is  impatient  even  of  the  hours  spent  in  sleep  or  at 
the  table.  The  diversions  sought  by  such  a  mind,  if  any,  are 
of  a  kind  only  to  still  further  increase  the  mental  heat,  instead 
of  cooling  and  allaying  it.  There  is,  in  such  a  life,  no  conserva- 
tive or  tranquillizing  agent. 

As  a  resource,  a  change  from  the  ordinary  cares  and  toils  of 
life,  reading  is  a  sedative  that  composes  the  mind  and  restores 
its  calm  and  regular  movements.  Like  a  temperate  and  whole- 
some drink,  it  at  once  refreshes  and  nourishes,  and  may  be  safely 
taken  in   large  and  frequent  draughts.      Most  men   need  some- 


266 


BOOK-SHELF 


thing   like   a  balance-wheel  to  equalize  the   operation  of  their 
mental  and  moral   powers,  and   to  prevent  the  imagination  and 
fancy   from   domineering   over   the   reason   and 
judgment,  to  break  the  sudden  shocks  of  passion       „  /^ h"^  d 
and   interest,  and  to   carry  the  mind  past  sea-         Nourishes. 
sons  of  weariness,  depression,  disappointment,  or 
afflidion.     A  man  without  any  such  conservative   provision  in 
his   nature  is  the  fool   of  chance,  and  every  wind  that   blows. 
His  mind,  ill  regulated  from  the  start,  becomes  rapidly  more  and 
more  disordered  by  the  tear  and  excitement  of  each  succeeding 
day.      His  only  relief  is  in  other  excitements  still  more  frivolous 
and   unsatisfadiory,  until   his    increasing   restlessness   is   looked 
upon,  even   by  the  very  servants  who  witness   it,  with   less   of 
compassion  than  contempt. 

This  miserable  condition  can  never  be  the  fate  of  the  read- 
ing man.     To  him,  a  few  books  in  his  house  are  as  a  couch,  on 
which   his  mind  can  repose  for  an  hour  or  two     ^„y  Vocation  Is 
of  each    day,  and    then    he    returns  calm    and     Dignified  When 
refreshed  to  his  customary  business.     Moreover,  Pursued  by  a  Read- 
any  kind  of  business  or  vocation  is  dignified  and         *"^  ^^"- 
made   honorable,  when   pursued   by  such  a  man  —  a  man  who 
reads,  and  has  some  knowledge  and  ideas  outside  of  his  neces- 
sary daily  occupations.      But  the  man  who   knows  nothing,  and 
can  think  of  nothing  beyond    his  business,  whether  that  is  forg- 
ing horse-shoes,  selling  cambrics,  painting  pictures,  or  preparing 
law  cases,  degrades  that  business,  and  is  degraded  by  it,  and  who 
does  not  know  that  we  have  narrow-minded  and  miserably  igno- 
rant professional  men,  artists,  and  merchants,  as  well  as  black- 
smiths?     Unvaried  toil  of  any  kind  is  mean  and  degrading. 

Reading  is  no  loss  of  time  to  the   business  man,  by  allow- 
ing his  rivals  to  pass  him  in  the  race.     For  this  life  is  not  a  race 
depending  upon  one  short  and  exhausting  effort; 
it  is  a  voyage,  a  journey  of  alternate  a(5lion  and  Occasional 

repose.     Continued  adion  without  repose  pro-         Recreation. 
duces  a  mental   heat  or  fever  that  is  unfavorable 
to   the   exercise  of   the  judgment,  without  which   the  greatest 

267 


MY      FAVORITE 


talents  achieve  no  results.  The  artist  who  has  worked  for  many 
hours  over  his  composition,  until,  wearied  and  confused,  he 
begins  to  doubt  as  to  some  of  the  details  or  effects  of  his  piece, 
loses  no  time  by  shutting  up  his  studio,  and  passing  the  evening 
in  pleasant  society,  or  at  the  play.  On  returning  in  the  morn- 
ing, as  he  unlocks  his  door,  and  catches  the  first  view  of  his 
work,  he  can  judge  of  it  almost  as  clearly  as  though  it  were  that 
of  some  other  person.  Even  the  statesman,  harassed  by  his 
rivals,  or  burdened  with  some  problem  of  domestic  or  foreign 
policy,  may  wisely  take  his  gun  or  his  rod,  or  unmoor  his  little 
boat  for  a  few  hours'  sail;  and,  on  returning  to  his  office,  his 
burdens  and  difficulties  will  probably  not  be  found  greater,  but 
less,  than  when  he  left  them;  simply  because  he  comes  back 
stronger  and  with  cooler  judgment  to  cope  with  them.  Even 
the  scholar,  who  has  so  much  to  learn  that  he  weighs  time  to 
the  utmost  grain,  will  end  with  becoming  little  better  than  one 
of  his  own  vocabularies,  unless  he  gives  some  hours  of  each  day 
to  his  family  and  the  general  interests  of  society.  Thus  it  is 
that  any  pursuit,  though  in  itself  the  most  dignified,  when  it  is 
so  followed  as  to  keep  the  mind  always  bound  to  it,  always  in 
harness,  becomes  after  a  while  a  slavish,  physical  habit.  The 
mind  then  works  mechanically  and  without  judgment,  and  there- 
fore does  much  to  no  purpose,  reaping  in  the  end  neither  hap- 
piness nor  respedt  as  the  fruit  of  its  labors.  Against  this,  what 
better  and  more  perfedt  safeguard  for  the  man  of  business,  than 
the  habit  of  reading? 

The  reading  of  Shakespeare's  plays  is  the  best  kind  of  intel- 
lectual  discipline.      It  vigorously  exercises  all   the  mental    facul- 
ties, improves  the  taste,  teaches  a  forcible  use 
Readingi  from       of  words,  accustoms  the  ear  to  the  harmony  of 
Shakespeare.        language,  and   opens  a  treasury  of  practical  wis- 
dom   that   delights   and    instructs   us   from   the 
period  of  youth  to  the  latest  years  of  life.      No  preparation  is 
needed  for  any  one   to  begin   the   reading,  nor  any  aid    beyond 
that  affiDrded   by  a  good  edition  with  a  few  foot-notes  to  explain 

268 


BOOK-SHELF 


obsolete  words  and  some  few  obscure  passages.  Indeed,  with- 
out these  aids,  nearly  all  that  he  wrote  may  be  easily  understood 
at  a  first  reading — more  easily,  I  will  assert,  than  are  some 
authors  of  the  present  day.  No  poetry,  and  least  of  all,  dra- 
matic poetry,  can  be  read  hastily,  as  we  read  a  newspaper  or  a 
novel.  The  reader  must  take  time  to  form  images  in  his  own 
mind  of  the  scenes  and  the  action,  the  appearance,  situation, 
manners,  and  tones  of  the  persons  represented,  along  with  their 
characters  and  purposes ;  in  short,  he  must  try  to  do  for  himself 
exactly  what  is  done  for  him  on  the  stage. 

If  we   desire  it,  Shakespeare  will   give  us  a  knowledge  of 
the  world  before  we  enter  it.     Nor  is  it  the  rustic  only  who  may 
need   this   knowledge.     The  man   of  business, 
living  in  a  great  metropolis,  but  absorbed  in  one  Othello, 

pursuit,  and  seeing  only  the  same  set  of  people  '^  Novice. 

from  one  year's  end  to  another,  may  be  almost 
as  unsophisticated  as  the  Green-mountain  boy;  and  he  would 
often  appear  so,  were  it  not  for  his  tailor,  and  one  or  two  other 
persons  whom  he  employs.  Even  Othello,  at  sixty,  after  all  his 
campaigns,  was  a  novice  in  the  world,  compared  to  the  least  of 
all  the  other  personages  in  the  play.  Had  he  been  a  reading 
man  —  a  reader  of  good  poetry  and  plays  —  he  never  could  have 
been  so  duped  and  betrayed. 


269 


MY      FAVORITE 

THACKERAY. 


I   like  to  think  of  a  well-nurtured   boy,  brave  and  gentle, 

warm-hearted  and  loving,  and  looking  the  world  in  the  face  with 

kind,  honest  eyes.    What  bright  colours  it  wore 

y     ,  then,  and  how  you  enjoyed  it!     A  man  has  not 

many  years  of  such  time.     He  does  not  know 

them  whilst  they  are  with  him.      It  is  only  when 

they  are    passed    long  away  that  he   remembers   how   dear  and 

happy  they  were.  Pendennis. 

How  lonely  we  are  in  the  world!  how  selfish  and  secret, 
everybody!  You  and  your  wife  have  pressed  the  same  pillow 
for  forty  years  and  fancy  yourselves  united.  Psha,  does  she 
cry  out  when  you  have  the  gout,  or  do  you  lie  awake  when  she 
has  the  toothache?  Your  artless  daughter,  seemingly  all  inno- 
cence and  devoted  to  her  mamma  and  her  piano-lesson,  is  think- 
ing of  neither,  but  of  the  young  Lieutenant  with  whom  she 
danced  at  the  last  ball. 

The  honest,  frank  boy  just  returned  from  school  is  secretly 
speculating  upon  the  money  you  will  give  him  and  the  debts 
he  owes  the  tart-man.     The  old  grandmother, 
<^  ,r  L  crooning  in  the  corner  and  bound   to  another 

world  within  a  few  months,  has  some  business 
or  cares  which  are  quite  private  and  her  own; 
very  likely  she  is  thinking  of  fifty  years  back,  and  that  night 
when  she  made  such  an  impression,  and  danced  a  cotillion  with 
the  Captain  before  your  father  proposed  for  her:  or,  what  a 
silly  little  overrated  creature  your  wife  is,  and  how  absurdly  you 
are  infatuated  about  her, —  and,  as  for  your  wife  —  O  philo- 
sophic reader,  answer  and  say, —  do  you  tell  her  all?  Ah,  sir — 
a  distinct  universe  walks  about  under  your  hat  and  under  mine — 
all  things  in  nature  are  different  to  each  —  the  woman  we   look 

270 


BOOK-SHELF 


at  has  not  the  same  features,  the  dish  we  eat  from  has  not  the 
same  taste  to  the  one  and  the  other;  you  and  I  are  but  a  pair 
of  infinite  isolations,  with  some  fellow-islands  a  little  more  or 
less  near  to  us.  Pendennis. 

It  was  a  jovial   time,  that  of  four-and-twenty,  when  every 
muscle  of  mind  and  body  was  in  healthy  adion,  when  the  world 
was  new  as  yet,  and  one  moved  over  it  spurred 
onwards  by  good  spirits  and  the  delightful  capa-  y. 

bility  to  enjoy.  If  ever  we  feel  young  after- 
wards it  is  with  the  comrades  of  that  time;  the 
tunes  we  hum  in  our  old  age  are  those  we  learned  then.  Some- 
times, perhaps,  the  festivity  of  that  period  revives  in  our  memory; 
but  how  dingy  the  pleasure-garden  has  grown,  how  tattered  the 
garlands  look,  how  scant  and  old  the  company,  and  what  a  num- 
ber of  the  lights  have  gone  out  since  that  day!  Grey  hairs  have 
come  on  like  daylight  streaming  in  —  daylight  and  a  headache 
with  it.     Pleasure  has  gone  to  bed  with  the  rouge  on  her  cheeks. 

Pendennis. 

What  is  it  you  want.-*     Do  you  want  a  body  of  capitalists 
that  shall   be  forced  to  purchase  the  works  of  all  authors,  who 
may  present   themselves,  manuscript   in   hand.? 
Everybody  who  writes  his  epic,  every  driveller  Genius 

who  can  or  can't  spell,  and  produces  his  novel  ^"^  ^^g^- 

or  his  tragedy,  are  they  all  to  come  and  find  a 
bag  of  sovereigns  in  exchange  for  their  worthless  reams  of  paper,'' 
Who  is  to  settle  what  is  good  or  bad,  saleable  or  otherwise? 
Will  you  give  the  buyer  leave,  in  fine,  to  purchase  or  not.-* 
Why,  sir,  when  Johnson  sate  behind  the  screen  at  Saint  John's 
Gate,  and  took  his  dinner  apart,  because  he  was  too  shabby  and 
poor  to  join  the  literary  bigwigs  who  were  regaling  themselves 
round  Mr.  Cave's  best  table-cloth,  the  tradesman  was  doing  him 
no  wrong.  You  could  n't  force  the  publisher  to  recognize  the 
man  of  genius  in  the  young  man  who  presented  himself  before 
him,  ragged,  gaunt,  and    hungry.      Rags  are    not    a    proof  of 

271 


MY      FAVORITE 


genius ;  whereas  capital  is  absolute,  as  times  go,  and  is  perforce 
the  bargain-master.  It  has  a  right  to  deal  with  the  literary 
inventor  as  with  any  other;  if  I  produce  a  novelty  in  the  book- 
trade,  I  must  do  the  best  I  can  with  it;  but  I  can  no  more  force 
Mr.  Murray  to  purchase  my  book  of  travels  or  sermons,  than 
I  can  compel  Mr.  Tattersall  to  give  me  a  hundred  guineas  for 
my  horse.  I  may  have  my  own  ideas  of  the  value  of  my  Pega- 
sus, and  think  him  the  most  wonderful  of  animals;  but  the  dealer 
has  a  right  to  his  opinion,  too,  and  may  want  a  lady's  horse,  or 
a  cob  for  a  heavy,  timid  rider,  or  a  sound  hack  for  the  road,  and 
my  beast  won't  suit  him. 

Which  is  the  most  reasonable  and  does  his  duty  best:   he 

who  stands  aloof  from  the  struggle  of  life,  calmly  contemplating 

it,  or  he  who  descends  to  the  ground,  and  takes 

mo  Ordered      ^^^  |^  ^j^^  contest?     That  philosopher  holds 

butjerm?  and  ^  ,  j        i        i  r     i  i  j 

Success?  ^  great  place  amongst  the  leaders  or  the  world, 

and  enjoys  to  the  full  what  it  has  to  give  of  rank 
and  riches,  renown  and  pleasure,  who  comes,  weary-hearted,  out 
of  it,  and  says  that  all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  Many 
a  teacher  of  those  whom  we  reverence,  and  who  steps  out  of  his 
carriage  up  to  his  carved  cathedral  place,  shakes  his  lawn  ruffles 
over  the  velvet  cushion,  and  cries  out  that  the  whole  struggle  is 
an  accursed  one,  and  that  the  works  of  the  world  are  evil. 
Many  a  conscience-stricken  mystic  flies  from  it  altogether,  and 
shuts  himself  out  from  it  within  convent  walls  (real  or  spiritual), 
whence  he  can  only  look  up  to  the  sky,  and  contemplate  the 
heaven  out  of  which  there  is  no  rest,  and  no  good. 

But  the  earth,  where  our  feet  are,  is  the  work  of  the  same 
Power  as  the  immeasurable  blue  yonder,  in  which  the  future 
lies  into  which  we  would  peer.  Who  ordered  toil  as  the  condi- 
tion of  life,  ordered  weariness,  ordered  sickness,  ordered  poverty, 
failure,  success  —  to  this  man  a  foremost  place,  to  the  other  a 
nameless  struggle  with  the  crowd  —  to  that  a  shameful  fall,  or 
paralysed  limb,  or  sudden  accident  —  to  each  some  work  upon 
the  ground  he  stands  on,  until  he  is  laid  beneath  it. 

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As  you   sit,  surrounded   by  respedt  and   affection ;    happy, 
honoured,  and   flattered  in  your  old  age;    your  foibles   gently 
indulged;    your  least   words    kindly  cherished; 
your  garrulous  old  stories  received  for  the  hun-   .  ^    /  t'"^  t  ■ 

•',       ,  P    .  •  I      1      •/-  1  r     I  1  IS  Dead;  Long  Live 

dredth  time  with  dutirul  rorbearance,  and  never-  ^^^  King. 

failing  hypocritical  smiles;  the  women  of  your 
house  constant  in  their  flatteries;  the  young  men  hushed  and 
attentive  when  you  begin  to  speak;  the  servants  awe-stricken; 
the  tenants  cap  in  hand,  and  ready  to  adt  in  the  place  of  your 
worship's  horses  when  your  honour  takes  a  drive — it  has  often 
struck  you,  O  thoughtful  Dives!  that  this  resped,  and  these 
glories,  are  for  the  main  part  transferred,  with  your  fee-simple 
to  your  successor  —  that  the  servants  will  bow,  and  the  tenants 
shout,  for  your  son  as  for  you;  that  the  butler  will  fetch  him 
the  wine  (improved  by  a  little  keeping)  that's  now  in  your  cel- 
lar; and  that,  when  your  night  is  come,  and  the  light  of  your 
life  is  gone  down,  as  sure  as  the  morning  rises  after  you  and 
without  you,  the  sun  of  prosperity  and  flattery  shines  upon 
your  heir.  Men  come  and  bask  in  the  halo  of  consols  and 
acres  that  beams  round  about  him;  the  reverence  is  transferred 
with  the  estate;  of  which,  with  all  its  advantages,  pleasures, 
resped  and  good-will,  he  in  turn  becomes  the  life-tenant.  How 
long  do  you  wish  or  expe6l  that  your  people  will  regret  you? 
How  much  time  does  a  man  devote  to  grief  before  he  begins  to 
enjoy?  A  great  man  must  keep  his  heir  at  his  feast  like  a  liv- 
ing memento  mori.  If  he  holds  very  much  by  life,  the  presence 
of  the  other  must  be  a  constant  sting  and  warning.  "  Make 
ready  to  go,"  says  the  successor  to  your  honour;  "I  am  wait- 
ing; and  I  could  hold  it  as  well  as  you." 

You  must  bear  your  own  burthen,  fashion  your  own  faith, 
think  your  own  thoughts,  and  pray  your  own  prayer.  To  what 
mortal  ear  could  I  tell  all  if  I  had  a  mind?  or  who  could  under- 
stand all?  Who  can  tell  another's  shortcomings,  lost  opportu- 
nities, weigh  the  passions  which  overpower,  the  defedls  which 
incapacitate  reason?    what  extent  of  truth  and  right  his  neigh- 

273 


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hour's  mind  is  organised  to  perceive  and  to  do?  what  invisible 
and  forgotten  accident,  terror  of  youth,  chance  or  mischance  of 
fortune,  may  have  altered  the  current  of  life?  A  grain  of  sand 
may  alter  it,  as  the  flinging  of  a  pebble  may  end  it.  Who  can 
weigh  circumstances,  passions,  temptations,  that  go  to  our  good 
and  evil  account,  save  One,  before  whose  awful  wisdom  we 
kneel,  and  at  whose  mercy  we  ask  absolution?        Pendennis. 

If  authors  sneer,  it  is  the  critic's  business  to  sneer  at  them 
for  sneering.  He  must  pretend  to  be  their  superior,  or  who 
would  care  about  his  opinion?  And  his  livelihood  is  to  find 
fault.  Besides,  he  is  right  sometimes;  and  the  stories  he  reads, 
and  the  characters  drawn  in  them,  are  old,  sure  enough.  What 
stories  are  new? 

All    types    of    all    characters    march    through    all    fables; 

tremblers  and  boasters;  victims  and  bullies;  dupes  and  knaves; 

long-eared   Neddies,  giving  themselves  leonine 

Nothing  New       airs;  TartufFes  wearing  virtuous  clothing;  lovers 

Under  the  Sun.      and   their  trials,  their  blindness,  their  folly  and 

constancy.     With    the    very  first    page   of  the 

human   story  do   not  love,  and   lies,  too,  begin?     So  the  tales 

were   told   ages   before   i?isop;    and    asses    under  lions'   manes 

roared  in   Hebrew;    and  sly  foxes  flattered  in   Etruscan;    and 

wolves   in   sheep's   clothing   gnashed  their  teeth  in  Sanscrit,  no 

doubt.     The  sun  shines  to-day  as  he  did  when    he  first  began 

shining;  and  the  birds  in  the  tree  overhead,  while  I  am  writing, 

sing  very  much  the  same  note   they  have   sung  ever  since  they 

were  finches.     There  may  be  nothing  new  under  and  including 

the  sun;  but  it   looks   fresh  every  morning,  and  we  rise  with  it 

to   toil,   hope,  scheme,   laugh,  struggle,   love,  sufi^er,   until  the 

night  comes  and  quiet.  The  Newcomes. 

There  is  no  good  (unless  your  taste  is  that  way)  in  living 
in  a  society  where  you  are  merely  the  equal  of  everybody  else. 
Many  people  give  themselves  extreme  pains  to  frequent  com- 
pany where  all   around   them   are  their  superiors,  and  where,  do 

274 


BOOK-SHELF 


what  you  will,  you  must  be  subject  to  continual   mortification. 
The  true  pleasure  of  life  is  to  live  with  your  inferiors.      Be  the 
cock  of  your  village;  the  queen  of  your  coterie. 
I   am  like  Cassar,  and  of  a  noble  mind:   if   I      Be  the  Cock  of 
cannot  be  first  in  Piccadilly,  let  me  try  Hatton        l^our  Village. 
Garden,  and  see  whether  I   cannot  lead   the  ton 
there.     If   I   cannot  take  the  lead  at  White's  or    the  Travel- 
lers', let  me  be  president  of  the  Jolly  Sandboys  at  the   Bag  of 
Nails,  and   blackball  everybody  who  does   not  pay  me   honour. 
With  a  shilling's  worth  of  tea  and  muffins  you  can  get  as  much 
adulation  and  resped:  as  many  people  cannot  purchase  with  a 
thousand  pounds'  worth  of  plate  and  profusion,  hired  footmen 
turning  their  houses   topsy-turvy,  and  suppers   from   Gunter's. 
Adulation !  why,  the  people  who  come  to  you  give  as  good  par- 
ties as  you  do.      Resped!   the  very  menials,  who  wait  behind 
your  supper-table,  waited  at  a  duke's  yesterday,  and  adually 
patronize  you !     You   can   buy  flattery  for  twopence,  and  you 
spend  ever   so   much   money  in   entertaining  your   equals  and 
betters,  and  nobody  admires  you ! 

The   writer  of   these   veracious    pages   was   once    walking 
through  a  splendid  English  palace  standing  amidst  parks  and 
gardens,  than  which  none  more  magnificent  has 
been  seen  since  the  days  of  Aladdin,  in  company      The  Skeleton  in 
with  a  melancholy  friend,  who  viewed  all  things         ^ke  Closet. 
darkly  through  his  gloomy  eyes.     The  house- 
keeper, pattering  on  before  us  from   chamber  to  chamber,  was 
expatiating  upon   the  magnificence  of  this  pidture;  the  beauty 
of  that  statue;  the  marvellous  richness  of  these  hangings  and 
carpets,  and  so  on;  when,  in  the  very  richest  room  of  the  whole 
castle.   Hicks,   such    was    my    melancholy    companion's    name, 
stopped   the  cicerone  in  her  prattle,  saying  in  a  hollow  voice, 
"And  now,  madam,  will  you  show  us  the  closet  where  the  skel- 
eton is?''     The  scared  functionary  paused  in   the  midst  of  her 
harangue;  that  article  was   not  inserted  in  the  catalogue  which 
she  daily  utters  to  visitors  for  their  half-crown.     Hicks's  ques- 

275 


MY      FAVORITE 


tion  brought  a  darkness  down  upon  the  hall  where  we  were 
standing.  We  did  not  see  the  room;  and  yet  I  have  no  doubt 
there  is  such  a  one;  and  ever  after  when  I  have  thought  of  the 
splendid  castle  towering  in  the  midst  of  shady  trees,  under  which 
the  dappled  deer  are  browsing;  of  the  terraces  gleaming  with 
statues,  and  bright  with  a  hundred  thousand  flowers;  of  the 
bridges,  and  shining  fountains,  and  rivers,  wherein  the  castle 
windows  reflecft  their  festive  gleams,  when  the  halls  are  filled 
with  happy  feasters,  and  over  the  darkling  woods  comes  the 
sound  of  music; — always,  I  say,  when  I  think  of  Castle  Blue- 
beard, it  is  to  think  of  that  dark  little  closet,  which  I  know  is 
there,  and  which  the  lordly  owner  opens  shuddering,  after  mid- 
night, when  he  is  sleepless  and  must  go  unlock  it,  when  the 
palace  is  hushed,  when  beauties  are  sleeping  around  him  uncon- 
scious, and  revellers  are  at  rest. 

Have  we  not  all  such  closets,  my  jolly  friend,  as  well  as 
the  noble  Marquis  of  Carabas?  At  night,  when  all  the  house  is 
asleep  but  you,  don't  you  get  up  and  peep  into  yours?  When 
you  in  your  turn  are  slumbering,  up  gets  Mrs.  Brown  from  your 
side,  steals  downstairs  like  Amina  to  her  ghoul,  clicks  open  the 
secret  door,  and  looks  into  her  dark  depository.  Did  she  tell 
you  of  that  little  affair  with  Smith  long  before  she  knew  you? 
Psha!  who  knows  any  one  save  himself  alone?  Who,  in 
showing  his  house  to  the  closest  and  dearest,  doesn't  keep  back 
the  key  of  a  closet  or  two? 

Surely  a  fine  furious  temper,  if  accompanied  with  a  certain 

magnanimity    and   bravery,  which   often   go    together  with  it,  is 

one   of  the   most   precious   and  fortunate   gifts 

Successful         with  which  a  gentleman  or  lady  can  be  endowed. 

Antagonism.        A  person  always  ready  to  fight  is  certain  of  the 

greatest  consideration  amongst  his  or  her  family 

circle.      The  lazy  grow  tired  of  contending  with  him;   the  timid 

coax  and  flatter  him;  and  as  almost  every  one  is  timid  or  lazy, 

a  bad-tempered  man  is  sure  to  have  his  own  way.      It  is  he  who 

commands,  and  all  the  others  obey.      If  he   is  a  gourmand  he 

276 


BOOK-SHELF 


has  what  he  likes  for  dinner;  and  the  tastes  of  all  the  rest  are 
subservient  to  him.  She  (we  playfully  transfer  the  gender,  as  a 
bad  temper  is  of  both  sexes)  has  the  place  which  she  likes  best 
in  the  drawing-room ;  nor  do  her  parents,  nor  her  brothers  and 
sisters,  venture  to  take  her  favourite  chair.  If  she  wants  to  go 
to  a  party,  mamma  will  dress  herself  in  spite  of  her  headache; 
and  papa,  who  hates  those  dreadful  soirees,  will  go  upstairs  after 
dinner  and  put  on  his  poor  old  white  neckcloth,  though  he  has 
been  toiling  at  chambers  all  day,  and  must  be  there  early  in  the 
morning — he  will  go  out  with  her,  we  say,  and  stay  for  the 
cotillion.  If  the  family  are  taking  their  tour  in  the  summer,  it 
is  she  who  ordains  whither  they  shall  go,  and  when  they  shall 
stop.  If  he  comes  home  late,  the  dinner  is  kept  for  him,  and 
not  one  dares  to  say  a  word  though  ever  so  hungry.  If  he  is 
in  good  humour,  how  every  one  frisks  about  and  is  happy ! 
How  the  servants  jump  up  at  his  bell  and  run  to  wait  upon 
him!  How  they  sit  up  patiently,  and  how  eagerly  they  rush 
out  to  fetch  cabs  in  the  rain !  Whereas,  for  you  and  me,  who 
have  the  tempers  of  angels,  and  never  were  known  to  be  angry 
or  to  complain,  nobody  cares  whether  we  are  pleased  or  not. 
Our  wives  go  to  the  milliners  and  send  us  the  bill,  and  we  pay 
it;  our  John  finishes  reading  the  newspaper  before  he  answers 
our  bell  and  brings  it  to  us;  our  sons  loll  in  the  arm-chair  which 
we  should  like;  fill  the  house  with  their  young  men,  and  smoke 
in  the  dining-room;  our  tailors  fit  us  badly;  our  butchers  give 
us  the  youngest  mutton;  our  tradesmen  dun  us  much  more 
quickly  than  other  people's,  because  they  know  we  are  good- 
natured;  and  our  servants  go  out  whenever  they  like,  and 
openly  have  their  friends  to  supper  in  the  kitchen. 

I  protest  the  great  ills  of  life  are  nothing — the  loss  of  your 
fortune  is  a  mere  flea-bite;  the  loss  of  your  wife  —  how  many 
men  have  supported  it,  and  married  comfortably  afterwards?  It 
is  not  what  you  lose,  but  what  you  have  daily  to  bear  that 
is  hard.  I  can  fancy  nothing  more  cruel,  after  a  long  easy  life  of 
bachelorhood,  than  to  have  to  sit  day   after  day   with   a  dull. 


277 


MY      FAVORITE 


handsome   woman   opposite ;    to    have   to    answer   her   speeches 
about  the  weather,  housekeeping,  and  what  not;  to  smile  appro- 
priately when  she  is  disposed  to  be  lively  (that 
-    .  ,  „      .  laughine;  at  the  jokes  is  the  hardest  part),  and 

Social  Boredom.  i    i  -^  •  •     i  • 

to  model  your  conversation  so  as  to  suit  her  in- 
telligence, knowing  that  a  word  used  out  of  its 
downright  signification  will  not  be  understood  by  your  fair  break- 
fast-maker. Women  go  through  this  simpering  and  smiling  life, 
and  bear  it  quite  easily.  Theirs  is  a  life  of  hypocrisy.  What  good 
woman  does  not  laugh  at  her  husband's  or  father's  jokes  and 
stories  time  after  time,  and  would  not  laugh  at  breakfast,  lunch 
and  dinner,  if  he  told  them?  Flattery  is  their  nature  —  to  coax, 
flatter  and  sweetly  befool  some  one  is  every  woman's  business. 

At  the  usual  evening  hour  the  chapel  bell   began  to  toll, 
and  Thomas  Newcome's  hands  outside  the  bed  feebly  beat  time. 
And  just  as  the  last  bell  struck,  a  peculiar  sweet 
,,,        smile  shone  over  his  face,  and   he  lifted  up  his 
head  a  little,  and  quickly  said,  "Adsum!"  and 
fell  back.      It  was  the  word  we  used  at  school 
when  names  were  called;  and  lo,  he,  whose  heart  was  as  that  of 
a  little  child,  had  answered  to  his  name,  and  stood  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Master.  The   Newcomes. 

The  world  deals  good-naturedly  with  good-natured  people, 
and  1  never  knew  a  sulky  misanthropist  who  quarrelled  with  it, 
but  it  was  he,  and  not  it,  that  was  in  the  wrong. 

The  rule  of  a  father  over   his  family,  and   his  conduct  to 
wife  and  children — subjects  over  whom   his   power  is  monarchi- 
cal—  any  one  who  watches  the  world  must  think 
The  King  of       with  trembling  sometimes  of  the  account  which 
the  Fireside.        many  a  man  will   have  to  render.      For  in   our 
society  there's  no  law  to  control  the  King  of  the 
Fireside.     He  is  master  of  property,  happiness,  life  almost.     He 
is  free  to   punish,  to   make   happy   or   unhapf')y  —  to  ruin   or  to 

278 


BOOK-SHELF 


torture.  He  may  kill  a  wife  gradually,  and  be  no  more  ques- 
tioned than  the  Grand  Seignor  who  drowns  a  slave  at  midnight. 
He  may  make  slaves  and  hypocrites  of  his  children;  or  friends 
and  freemen ;  or  drive  them  into  revolt  and  enmity  against  the 
natural  law  of  love. 

Fortune,  good  or  ill,  as  I  take  it,  does  not  change  men  and 
women.      It  but  develops  their  chara(iters.     As  there  are  a  thou- 
sand thoughts  lying  within  a  man  that  he  does 
not  know  till  he  takes  up  the  pen  to  write,  so       „    ^     eeping 

r  r  '  Secrets  of  the 

the  heart  is  a  secret  even  to  him   (or  her)  who  Heart. 

has  it  in  his  own  breast.     Who  hath  not  found 
himself  surprised  into  revenge,  or  adiion,  or  passion,  for  good 
or  evil,  whereof  the  seeds  lay  within  him,  latent  and  unsuspected, 
until  the  occasion  called  them  forth? 

What  is  the   meaning  of  fidelity  in  love,  and  whence  the 
birth  of  it?     'Tis  a  state  of  mind  that  men  fall  into,  and  de- 
pending on   the  man   rather   than   the   woman. 
We  love  being  in  love,  that's  the  truth  on't.     If  ^ 

~  Love. 

we  had  not  met  Joan,  we  should  have  met  Kate, 
and  adored  her.  We  know  our  mistresses  are 
no  better  than  many  other  women,  nor  no  prettier,  nor  no  wiser, 
nor  no  wittier.  'Tis  not  for  these  reasons  we  love  a  woman,  or 
for  any  special  quality  or  charm  I  know  of;  we  might  as  well 
demand  that  a  lady  should  be  the  tallest  woman  in  the  world, 
like  the  Shropshire  giantess,  as  that  she  should  be  a  paragon  in 
any  other  charader,  before  we  began  to  love  her.       Esmond. 

Vanity  Fair — Vanity  Fair!      Here  was  a  man,  who  could 
not  spell,  and  did  not  care  to  read  —  who  had  the  habits  and  the 
cunning  of  a  boor;  whose  aim  in  life  was  petti- 
fogging; who   never  had  a  taste,  or  emotion,  or  A  Social 
enjoyment,  but  what  was  sordid  and  foul ;  and        Monstrosity. 
yet  he  had  rank,  and  honours,  and  power,  some- 
how; and  was  a  dignitary  of  the  land,  and  a  pillar  of  the  state. 

279 


MY      FAVORITE 


He  was  high  sheriff,  and  rode  in  a  golden  coach.  Great  minis- 
ters and  statesmen  courted  him;  and  in  Vanity  Fair  he  had  a 
higher   place   than   the  most  brilliant  genius  of  spotless  virtue. 

Vanity  Fair. 

"I  think  I  could  be  a  good  woman,"  said  Rebecca,  "if  I 
had  five  thousand  a  year.  I  could  dawdle  about  in  the  nursery,  and 
count  the  apricots  on  the  wall.  I  could  water 
The  Magic  Touch  plants  in  a  green-house,  and  pick  off  dead  leaves 
of  Midas.  from  the  geraniums.  I  could  ask  old  women 
about  their  rheumatisms,  and  order  half  a 
crown's  worth  of  soup  for  the  poor.  I  shouldn't  miss  it  much 
out  of  five  thousand  a  year.  I  could  even  drive  out  ten  miles 
to  dine  at  a  neighbour's,  and  dress  in  the  fashions  of  the  year 
before  last.  I  could  go  to  church  and  keep  awake  in  the  great 
family  pew;  or  go  to  sleep  behind  the  curtains,  with  my  veil 
down,  if  I  only  had  practise.  I  could  pay  everybody,  if  I  had 
but  the  money.  This  is  what  the  conjurors  here  pride  them- 
selves upon  doing.  They  look  down  with  pity  upon  us  miser- 
able sinners  who  have  none.  They  think  themselves  generous 
if  they  give  our  children  a  five-pound  note,  and  us  contemptible 
if  we  are  without  one."  And  who  knows  but  Rebecca  was  right 
in  her  speculations — and  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  money 
and  fortune  which  made  the  difference  between  her  and  an  hon- 
est woman?  If  you  take  temptations  into  account,  who  is  to 
say  that  he  is  better  than  his  neighbour? 

A  comfortable  career  of  prosperity,  if  it  does  not  make 
people  honest,  at  least  keeps  them  so.  An  alderman  coming 
from  a  turtle  feast  will  not  step  out  of  his  carriage  to  steal  a  leg 
of  mutton;  but  put  him  to  starve  and  see  if  he  will  not  purloin 
a  loaf. 

I  know  few  things  more  affeding  than  that  timorous 
debasement  and  self-humiliation  of  a  woman.  How  she  owns 
that  it  is  she,  and  not  the  man,  who  is  guilty;  how  she  takes  all 
the  faults  on  her  side;  how  she  courts  in  a  manner  punishment 

280 


BOOK-SHELF 


for  the  wrongs  which  she   has   not  committed,  and  persists  in 
shielding  the  real  culprit! 

It  is  those  who  injure  women  who  get  the  most  kindness 
from  them — they  are  born  timid  and  tyrants,  and  maltreat  those 
who  are  humblest  before  them. 

Which  of  the  dead  are  most  tenderly  and  passionately  de- 
plored ?     Those   who  love   the   survivors   the   least,  I   believe. 
The  death  of  a  child  occasions  a  passion  of  grief 
and    frantic  tears,    such    as    your   end,    brother      „    'i'     J^^ 

.  ...  .         .  ^.        .        ^        r  •  Dead  are  Most 

reader,  will  never  mspire.  1  he  death  or  an  m-  Deplored? 
fant  which  scarce  knew  you,  which  a  week's  ab- 
sence from  you  would  have  caused  to  forget  you,  will  strike  you 
down  more  than  the  loss  of  your  closest  friend,  or  your  first-born 
son  —  a  man  grown  like  yourself,  with  children  of  his  own.  We 
may  be  harsh  and  stern  with  Judah  and  Simeon  —  our  love  and 
pity  gush  out  for  Benjamin  —  the  little  one.  And  if  you  are  old,  as 
some  reader  of  this  may  be  or  shall  be,  old  and  rich,  or  old  and 
poor — you  may  be  one  day  thinking  for  yourself — "These 
people  are  very  good  round  about  me;  but  they  won't  grieve  too 
much  when  I  am  gone.  I  am  very  rich,  and  they  want  my 
inheritance  —  or  very  poor,  and  they  are  tired  of  supporting 
me."  Vanity  Fair. 


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T  Y  N  DAL  L. 


The  kingdom  of  science  cometh  not  by  observation  and 
experiment  alone,  but  is  completed  by  fixing  the  roots  of  obser- 
vation and  experiment  in  a  region  inaccessible  to  both,  and  in 
dealing  with  which  we  are  forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  piduring 
power  of  the  mind. 

1  hold  the  nebular  theory  as  it  was  held  by  Kant,  Laplace, 

and  William   Herschel,  and  as  it  is  held   by  the   best  scientific 

intellects   of  to-day.     According  to  it,  our  sun 

The  Nebular       and  planets  were  once  diffused  through  space  as 

Theory.  an  impalpable  haze,  out  of  which,  by  condensa- 

tion, came  the  solar  system.  What  caused  the 
haze  to  condense?  Loss  of  heat.  What  rounded  the  sun  and 
planets?  That  which  rounds  a  tear — molecular  force.  For 
reons,  the  immensity  of  which  overwhelms  man's  conceptions, 
the  earth  was  unfit  to  maintain  what  we  call  life.  It  is  now 
covered  with  visible  living  things.  They  are  not  formed  of 
matter  different  from  that  of  the  earth  around  them.  They  are, 
on  the  contrary,  bone  of  its  bone,  and  flesh  of  its  flesh.  How 
were  they  introduced?  Was  life  implicated  in  the  nebula  —  as 
part,  it  may  be,  of  a  vaster  and  wholly  Unfathomable  Life;  or 
is  it  the  work  of  a  Being  standing  outside  the  nebula,  who 
fashioned  it  and  vitalized  it;  but  whose  own  origin  and  ways 
are  equally  past  finding  out? 

As  far  as  the  eye  of  science  hath  hitherto  ranged  through 
nature,  no  intrusion  of  purely  creative  power  into  any  series  of 
phenomena  has  ever  been  observed.  The  assumption  of  such 
a  power  to  account  for  special  phenomena,  though  often  made, 
has  always  proved  a  failure.  It  is  opposed  to  the  very  spirit  of 
science;  and  I  therefore  assumed  the  responsibility  of  holding 
up,  in  contrast  with  it,  that   method  of  nature  which  it  has  been 

282 


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the  vocation  and  triumph  of  science  to  disclose,  and  in  the  appli- 
cation of  which  we  can  alone  hope  for  further  light. 

Holding,  then,  that  the  nebulae  and  the  solar  system,  life 
included,  stand  to  each  other  in  the  relation  of  the  germ  to  the 
finished  organism,  1  reaffirm  here,  not  arrogantly,  or  defiantly, 
but  without  a  shade  of  indistinctness,  the  position  laid  down  at 
Belfast. 

Not  with  the  vagueness  belonging  to  the  emotions,  but 
with  the  definiteness  belonging  to  the  understanding,  the  scien- 
tific man  has  put  to  himself  these  questions 
regarding  the  introduftion  of  life  upon  the  earth.  The  Creative 
He  will  be  the  last  to  dogmatize  upon  the  sub-  Hypothesis. 
je<5t,  for  he  knows  best  that  certainty  is  here  for 
the  present  unattainable.  His  refusal  of  the  creative  hypothe- 
sis is  less  an  assertion  of  knowledge  than  a  protest  against  the 
assumption  of  knowledge  which  must  long,  if  not  forever,  lie 
beyond  us,  and  the  claim  to  which  is  the  source  of  perpetual 
confusion  upon  earth.  With  a  mind  open  to  conviction  he  asks 
his  opponents  to  show  him  an  authority  for  the  belief  they  so 
strenuously  and  so  fiercely  uphold.  They  can  do  no  more  than 
point  to  the  book  of  Genesis,  or  some  other  portion  of  the 
Bible.  Profoundly  interesting,  and  indeed  pathetic,  to  me  are 
those  attempts  of  the  opening  mind  of  man  to  appease  its  hun- 
ger for  a  cause.  But  the  book  of  Genesis  has  no  voice  in 
scientific  questions.  To  the  grasp  of  geology,  which  it  resisted 
for  a  time,  it  at  length  yielded  like  potter's  clay ;  its  authority 
as  a  system  of  cosmogony  being  discredited  on  all  hands, 
by  the  abandonment  of  the  obvious  meaning  of  its  writer.  It 
is  a  poem,  not  a  scientific  treatise.  In  the  former  aspe6t  it  is 
forever  beautiful :  in  the  latter  aspeft  it  has  been,  and  it  will 
continue  to  be,  purely  obstructive  and  hurtful.  To  knowledge 
its  value  has  been  negative,  leading,  in  rougher  ages  than  ours, 
to  physical,  and  even  in  our  own  "free"  age,  to  moral  violence. 

Bishop  Butler  accepted  with  unwavering  trust  the  chronol- 
ogy of  the  Old  Testament,  describing  it  as  "confirmed  by  the 

283 


MY      FAVORITE 


natural  and  civil  history  of  the  world,  collefted  from  common 
historians,  from  the  state  of  the  earth,  and  from  the  late  inven- 
tions of  arts  and  sciences."  These  words  mark 
The-  Riddle  of  progress ;  and  they  must  seem  somewhat  hoary 
the  Rocks.  to  the  bishop's  successors  of  to-day.  It  is 
hardly  necessary  to  inform  you  that  since  his  time 
the  domain  of  the  naturalist  has  been  immensely  extended  —  the 
whole  science  of  geology,  with  its  astounding  revelations  regard- 
ing the  life  of  the  ancient  earth,  having  been  created.  The 
rigidity  of  old  conceptions  has  been  relaxed,  the  public  mind 
being  rendered  gradually  tolerant  of  the  idea  that  not  for  six 
thousand,  nor  for  sixty  thousand,  nor  for  six  thousand  thou- 
sand, but  for  aeons  embracing  untold  millions  of  years,  this  earth 
has  been  the  theatre  of  life  and  death.  The  riddle  of  the  rocks 
has  been  read  by  the  geologist  and  palaeontologist,  sub-cambrian 
depths  to  the  deposits  thickening  over  the  sea-bottoms  of  to-day. 
And  upon  the  leaves  of  that  stone  book  are,  as  you  know, 
stamped  the  characters,  plainer  and  surer  than  those  formed  by 
the  ink  of  history,  which  carry  the  mind  back  into  abysses  of 
past  time,  compared  with  which  the  periods  which  satisfied 
Bishop  Butler  cease  to  have  a  visual  angle. 

The  lode  of  discovery  once  struck,  these  petrified  forms  in 

which  life  was  at  one  time  active,  increased  to   multitudes  and 

demanded  classification.     They  were  grouped  in 

^  '/"/.i\ .     genera,  species,  and  varieties,  according  to  the 

Forms  of  Life  Lie     °  '      Jl      .      '      .  ,     .     .  '        ,  °       , 

Lowest  Down.  degree  or  similarity  subsisting  between  them. 
Thus  confusion  was  avoided,  each  objedt  being 
found  in  the  pigeon-hole  appropriated  to  it  and  to  its  fellows 
of  similar  morphological  or  physiological  character.  The  general 
facit  soon  became  evident  that  none  but  the  simplest  forms  of  life 
lie  lowest  down;  that,  as  we  climb  higher  among  the  superim- 
posed strata,  more  perfedt  forms  appear.  The  change,  however, 
from  form  to  form,  was  not  continuous,  but  by  steps — some 
small,  some  great.  "A  section,"  says  Mr.  Huxley,  "a  hundred 
feet  thick  will  exhibit  at  different  heights  a  dozen  species  of 
Ammonite,  none  of  which  passes  beyond  the  particular  zone  of 

284 


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limestone,  or  clay,  into  the  zone  below  it,  or  into  that  above  it." 
In  the  presence  of  such  fads  it  was  not  possible  to  avoid  the 
question:  Have  these  forms,  showing,  though  in  broken  stages, 
and  with  many  irregularities,  this  unmistakable  general  advance, 
been  subjected  to  no  continuous  law  of  growth  or  variation  ? 

Had  our  education  been  purely  scientific,  or  had  it  been 
sufficiently  detached  from  influences  which,  however  ennobling 
in  another  domain,  have  always  proved  hindrances  and  delu- 
sions when  introduced  as  faftors  into  the  domain  of  physics, 
the  scientific  mind  never  could  have  swerved  from  the  search  for 
a  law  of  growth,  or  allowed  itself  to  accept  the  anthropomor- 
phism which  regarded  each  successive  stratum  as  a  kind  of  me- 
chanic's bench  for  the  manufacture  of  new  species  out  of  all 
relation  to  the  old. 


285 


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BOOK-SHELF 


INDEX 


ADDISON,  !. 

Banker  of  Lombard  Street,  4. 

Ganges,  The,  3. 

Indian  Brachman,  3. 

Indian  Tax-gatherer,  4. 

Pugg,  6. 

Pythagoras,  3. 

Rycant,  Sir  Paul,  2. 

Sirach,  i. 

Tully,  I. 

Will  Honeycomb,  2. 

BACON,  7. 

Augustus  Caesar,  7. 

Celius,  9. 

Cosmus,  Duke  of  Florence,  7. 

Foix,  Gaston  de,  7. 

Hortensius,  8. 

Julius  Csesar,  7. 

Livy,  8. 

Scipio  Africanus,  8. 

Septimus  Severus,  7. 

Tully,  8. 

BALZAC,  II. 

Aristophanes,  21. 
Balthazar,  22. 
Brillat-Savarin,  19. 
Cibot,  Madame,  22. 
Claparon,  13. 
Dante,  2 1 . 
Epernay,  13, 
Fontaine,  Madame,  22. 
Fortune-teller,  The,  20. 
Hippocrates,  21, 


Lenormand,  Mademoiselle,  22. 

Louis  the  XVIII,  22. 

Martin  the  Laborer,  22. 

Napoleon,  1 1 . 

Pons,  The  Virtuous,  20. 

Pythagoras,  2 1 . 

Rabelais,  2 1 , 

Saint  Peters,  The,  2 1 . 

Soothsayer,  The,  20. 

Swedenborg,  2 1 . 

The  Terror,  16. 

Troy,  II. 

BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON,  23. 
Barber,  Mr.,  34. 
Beauclerk,  27. 
Chesterfield,  Lord,  24. 
Cibber,  Colley,  24. 
Cowley,  32. 
Craddock,  23. 
Croker,  23. 
Desmoulins,  Mrs.,  34. 
Francis,  his  Servant,  34. 
Goldsmith,  26. 
Langton,  30. 

Lawrence,  Letter  to  Dr.,  31. 
Letter  to  Boswell  on  his  Father's 

Death,  32. 
Letter  to  Chesterfield,  25. 
Lyttleton,  George,  Lord,  24. 
Piozzi,  27. 
Rasay,  33. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  27—30. 
Socratic  Method,  The,  24. 
Spottiswoode,  29. 


287 


MY      FAVORITE 


Strahan,  23. 

Thrale,  Mrs.,  23-27. 

Tom  Davies's  Back  Parlor,  23. 

CHESTERFIELD,  LORD,  ^-j. 
Achilles,  49. 
Alcibiades,  42. 
Business  Letters,  39. 
Charles  II,  41 . 
"Cid,"  The,  47. 
Cleveland,  Duchess  of,  41. 
Corneille,  47. 
Euclid,  A  Problem  of,  37. 
Grand  Alliance,  The,  41. 
Halifax,  Lord,  41 . 
Heinsius,  The  Pensionary,  41. 
Julius  Caesar,  43. 
Marlborough,  Duke  of,  41. 
Mazarin,  Cardinal,  47. 
Pensionary,  de  Witt,  37. 
Richelieu,  46. 
Sardanapalus,  42. 
System-monger,  A,  49. 
Walpole,  Sir  Robert,  47. 

DAWSON,  GEORGE,  53. 

Trout-fishing,  53. 

DICKENS,  CHARLES,  55. 
Childhood  and  Age,  57. 
Love  of  the  Poor  for  Home,  55. 
Parting  with  the  Living  and  the 

Dead,  55. 
Rookery,  A,  56. 

FORD,  PAUL  LEICESTER,  58. 
Emmons,  Rev.  Nathanael,  58. 
Franklin,  The   Many-Sided,    58. 
Franklin's  Birth,  59. 

Creed,  60. 

His  Suffering,  61 . 

His   Literary  Attainments,  61. 

Dialogue  with  the  Gout,  62. 


FROUDE,  65. 

Butler,  Bishop,  66. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  67. 

Cicero,  69. 

College    Graduates   in   Australia, 

65. 
Goethe,  67. 
Job's  Friends,  70. 
Lucretius,  69. 
Milton,  66. 

'«  On  the  Nature  of  Gods,"  69. 
Paul,  Saint,  65. 
Shakespeare,  66. 
Spinoza,  65,  66. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  67. 

GOLDSMITH,  72. 

Chinese,  The  Polite,  73. 
Confucius,  Unshaken,  74. 
Friendship  in  Books,  75. 
Perfidy  and   Fraud  the   Vices  of 

Civilized  Nations,  72. 
Thibet,  The   Brown   Savage  of, 

73- 

GRANT,  ROBERT,  76. 

Daughter,  The  American,  77. 
Hobby,  Have  One,  76. 
Lincoln,  78. 

Mother,  The  American,  77. 
Shakespeare,  An  Evening  with,  76. 

GRONOW,  REMINISCENCES 
AND  RECOLLECTIONS  OF 
CAPTAIN,  79. 
Alvanley,  Lord,  80. 
Argyle,  Duke  of,  80. 
Bouverie,  Jack,  84. 
Brummell,  Beau,  79. 
At  Eton,  79. 
A  sort  of  Crichton,  79. 
Sent   for   by  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  79. 


288 


BOOK 


SHELF 


In  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire's 

Circle,  79. 
Commission  in    loth  Hussars, 

79- 
Remarkable  for  His  Dress,  80. 

His  House  in  Chapel  St.,  80. 

Intimate  with  the  Nobility,  80. 

Offends  the  Prince,  81. 

Dismissed  by  the  Prince,  8  i . 

Wins  ^20,000,  82. 

Poverty  of  His  Latter  Days,  8  2 . 

Dies  Insane  at  Calais,  82, 
Canning,  George,  82. 
Carlisle,  Lord,  83. 
Carlton  House,  8 1 . 
Cholmondeley's  Ball,  Lady,  8i. 
Constant,  Benjamin,  86. 
•'  Corinne,"  87, 
Crauford,  Madame,  84. 
♦♦De  TAllemagne,"  85. 
Dorset,  Duke  of,  80. 
Drummond,  George  H.,  81-83. 
Fitzherbert,  Mrs.,  81. 
Fitzpatrick,  General,  83. 
Fox,  Charles  James,  83. 
Graham's,  82-84. 
Grand,  Madame,  86. 
Guards'  Club,  The,  83. 
Hcytesbury,  Lady,  84. 
Howard  and  Gibbs,  83, 
Johnson,  87. 
London  Clubs  in  1814,  82. 

White's,   Boodle's,   Brookes's, 

Wattier's,  Guards',  Arthur's, 

82. 
Louis  XVI,  85. 
Macaulay,  87. 
Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  86. 
Marie  Antoinette,  85. 
Marlborough,  Duke  of,  87. 
Napoleon,  85. 
Necker,  Minister,  85. 
Oxford,  Lady,  84. 


Plymouth,  Lord,  80. 

Portland,  Duke  of,  82. 

Raikes,  84. 

Recamier,  Madame,  86. 

Rocca,  M.  de,  86. 

Rutland,  Duke  of,  80. 

Scott   Wins    ^200,000,    Gen., 

82. 
Sefton,  Lord,  80. 
Selwyn,  82. 
Smith,  Sydney,  87. 
Spencer,  Lord  Robert,  83. 
Stael,  Madame  de,  84. 
Stepney,  Sir  Thomas,  84. 
Talleyrand,  86. 
Upton,  Sir  Arthur,  82. 
Wattier's  Club,  Founding  of,  84. 
Weston  the  Tailor,  80. 
White's  Club,  81. 
'  <  Who' s  Your  Fat  Friend  ?  "  8 1 . 
Worcester,  Lady,  81. 
York,  Duke  of,  84. 

HALSEY,   FRANCIS  WHITING, 

88. 
An  Englishwoman's  Love  Letters, 

92. 
Arnold  Collection,  The,  90. 
Burns,  91. 
Byron,  94. 
Carlyle,  90. 
Chaucer,  94. 
Charlotte  Bronte,  95. 
Chautauqua  System,  90. 
Countess  of  Blessington,  89. 
Crawford,  Marion,  92. 
"David  Copperfield,"  93. 
♦•David  Harum,"  92. 
Dickens,  92. 
Du  Maurier,  92. 
Dunbar,  Paul  L.,  The  Negro 

Poet,  91. 
Emerson,  89. 


289 


MY      FAVORITE 


Fielding,  94. 

Froude,  91 . 

Gibbon,  91 . 

Grant,  General,  91. 

Hawthorne,  89—94. 

"Henry  Esmond,"  93. 

Hood,  Thomas,  89. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  92. 

'•Jack  Harkaway,"  93. 

"Jane  Eyre,"  95. 

"Janice  Meredith,"  92. 

Landor,  94. 

Lincoln,  95. 

Longfellow,  92. 

"  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life,"  91. 

Macmillan,  Frederick,  88. 

Milton,  90,  91,  94. 

Nansen,  91 . 

"Our  Mutual  Friend,"  93. 

Palgrave,  96. 

"Paradise  Lost,"  90. 

Phillips,  Stephen,  91. 

Reade,  Charles,  92. 

Ruskin,  89. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  91. 

Shakespeare,  94,  95. 

Stanley,  91. 

"Temper  and  Temperament," 

89. 
Tennyson,  89-92. 
Thackeray,  94. 
"The  Christian,"  92. 
"  The  Crisis,"  92. 
"The  Eternal  City,"  92. 
"The  Golden  Treasury,"  96. 
Trollope,  Anthony,  89. 
"  Vanity  Fair,"  93. 
Wordsworth,  94. 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL, 

97- 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  99. 
Walker,  Mr.,  99. 


HUGO,  VICTOR,  loi. 
Babylon,  105. 

Civilizations  of  India,  Chaldea, 
Persia,  Assyria,  Egypt,  107. 
Coliseum,  The,  103. 
Guttenberg,  1 01-103. 
Louis  XIV,  104. 
Luther,  The  Sword  of,  104. 
Nineveh,  105. 
Pyramids,  The,  103. 
Rome,  105. 
Thebes,  105. 
Voltaire,  104. 

HUME,  DAVID,  108. 
Ajax,   109. 

Alexander  the  Great,  1 10. 
Anthony,  109. 
Ccesar,  109. 
Cassius,  109. 
Conde,  Prince  of,  1 10. 
Longinus,  109. 
Parmenio,  1 10. 

HUNT,  LEIGH,  in. 

Blue  Pill,  The,  114. 
Vitellius,  1  15. 

HUXLEY,  116. 

Cassar  in  Britain,   116. 
Eohippus,  The,  120. 

JOHNSONIANA,  122. 
Goldsmith,  125. 
Piozzi,   122-125. 
Portraits,  Prices  Paid  for,  125, 

JORDAN,  DAVID  STARR,  126. 
Philosophy,  the  Consolations  of, 
126. 

LAMB,  CHARLES,  132. 

Book  Bindings,  140. 


290 


BOOK-SHELF 


Correggio's  Pifture,  145. 

Cowley,  140. 

Drayton,  140. 

Drummond      of     Hawthornden, 

140. 
Faerie  Queen,  The,  141. 
Locke,  136. 
Marlowe,  Kit,  140. 
Relation,  The  Poor,  141. 
Roast  Pig,  The  Origin  of,  132. 

LEVER,  CHARLES,  147. 

Arthur    O'Leary,     152-157. 
Dunn,  Davenport,  147—150. 
Fortunes,  The  Fortunes  of,  157- 

165. 
Fossbrooke,  Sir  Brooke,  150—152. 
Glencore,  Lord,  159. 
Traynor,  Billy,  159. 
Upton,  Sir  Horace,  158. 

LYTTON,  BULWER,  166. 
Bacon,  168. 
Brutus  at  Philippi,  168. 
Caxtoniana,  166-180. 
Gournay,  Marie  de,  178. 
Kean,  the  Aftor,  179. 
Kneller,  Sir  Godfrey,  179. 
Mark  Antony,   168. 
Moliere,  178. 
Montaigne,  178. 
Morland,  George,  177. 
Pythagoras,   168. 
Richelieu,  180. 
Shakespeare's  Writings,  168,  9. 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  BAB- 
INGTON,  181. 
Aspenden  Hall,  183. 
Bacon,  189. 

Blundell,  a  Schoolmate,  181. 
Cambridge,  188. 
Funeral  and  Pall-bearers,  198,  9. 


Gray,  189. 

Hodson,  Mr.,  182. 

Holly  Lodge,  197. 

♦'  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  184. 

Leeds  Bagmen,  191. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,   194. 

Maiden,  a  Schoolfellow,  183. 

Milton,  189. 

Napoleon,   194. 

"Paradise  Lost,"   184. 

Preston,  Mr.,  181. 

Queen's  College,  Cambridge,  182. 

"Refleftions  of  an  Exile,"  184. 

Shelford,  His  School,  181. 

Stoddart's  Sons  as  Pupils,  190. 

'♦The  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  184. 

Wilberforce,  a  Schoolmate,  181. 

MATHEWS,  WILLIAM,  200. 
Cobbet,  202. 
Faraday,  202. 
Fenelon,  203. 
Michelet,  203. 
Swift's  "Tale  of  a  Tub,"  202. 

MONTAIGNE,  204. 
Aristotle,  204. 
Hyspanis,  The  River,  204. 

OUIDA,  208. 

Hammet,  208. 
Hathaway,  Anne,  208. 
Judith,  208. 
Shakespeare,  209. 

PASCAL,  212. 

PRIME,  W.  C,  213. 
Galilee,  Sea  of,  213. 
Gordon,  Mrs.,  Christopher 

North's  Daughter,  215. 
Lebanon,  213. 
North,  Christopher,  215. 


291 


MY      FAVORITE 
BOOK-SHELF 


ROUSSEAU,  217. 

RUSKIN,  JOHN.  219. 
Vital  Power,  221. 

RUSSELL,  ADDISON   P.,  224. 
"  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  228. 
•'  Bride  ot"  Lammermoor"  written 

on  a  Sick  Bed,  235. 
Cervantes  Wanted  Bread,  227. 
««  Home  Sweet  Home,"  228. 
Hood,  Thomas,  235. 
Macaulay's  Letter  to  Lord 

Landsdowne,  233. 
North's  Wonderful  Pedestrian 

and  Pugilistic  Feats, 

Christopher,  228. 
Sheridan's  Impeachment  of 

Warren  Hastings,  236. 
Tennyson,  226. 
•*  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer," 

228. 

SCHOPENHAUER,  238. 
His  Philosophy,  238. 


SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER,  250. 
Ballantyne,  254. 
Byron's  Notes,  250. 
Cadell,  255. 
Constable's  Death,  260. 
Dogs,  His,  255. 
Dundas,  Sir  Robert,  251. 
Ferrier,  Miss,  263. 
Hurst  and   Robinson,   254-256. 
Last  Words,  His,  263. 
Lockhart,  John  G,,  250-253. 
Maxwell-Scott,  Mrs.,  250. 
Pepys,  Worked  at,  257. 
Suffering,  His,  262. 

STEARNS,  CHARLES  W.,  264. 

THACKERAY,  270. 

TYNDALL,  282. 

Butler,  Bishop,  283. 
Herschel,  282. 
Huxley,  284. 
Kant,  282. 
Laplace,  282. 


292 


PRESS    REVIEWS    OF 

THE   TRUE   NAPOLEON 

THE  TRUE  NAPOLEON,  a  Cyclopedia  of   Events  in  His  Life,  by 
Charles  Josselyn,  is  without  a  doubt  the  most  entertaining  biography  of 
the  great  Emperor  yet  written.      Mr.  Josselyn  has  expended  time  and 
labor  over  this  valuable    and   important  volume,  which  the  reader  will 
thankfully  appreciate.      Its  place  is  in  the  home  library  as  well  as   in  the  scholar's, 
and  its  worth  is  not  only  a  vigorous  delineation  of  the  man,  but  a  stirring  pifture 
of  those  epoch-making  times.  —  Times -Union  ^  Albany,  New  York. 

UNQLTESTIONABLY,  Mr.  Josselyn's  book  will   do  something  towards 
correfting   popular    fallacies   in    regard    to  Napoleon's   character.      The 
information  concerning  his  personality  and  private  life  has  been  carefully 
gleaned  from  many  works,   and  sifted  out  of  the   intrigues  and  scandals 
which    arose    around    him.      Much    light   is    thrown   upon    him,    and    the   volume 
becomes  a  decidedly  interesting  and  also  unique  memoir. — Detroit  Free  Press, 

OF  NAPOLEONIC  literature  there  truly  is  no  end,  and  it  would  appear 
as  an  utter  impossibility  to  discover  anything  that  might  add  to  the  value 
of  the  colleftion.  Charles  Josselyn,  however,  has  performed  the 
miracle.  In  the  manner  in  which  he  treats  his  subjeft,  he  gives  an 
insight  into  the  true  character  of  the  Corsican  General,  which  the  bare  fafts  of 
history  cannot  supply.  Accompanying  the  text,  too,  is  a  mass  of  both  official  and 
private  documents  bearing  upon  the  incidents  related,  and  often  giving  authoritative 
light  upon  heretofore  mooted  questions.  In  faft,  one  of  the  chiefest  values  of  the 
book  is  this  colleftion  of  documents,  very  many  of  which  have  never  been  hitherto 
published.  —  The  Post,  Denver,  July  6,  1902. 

NO  COLLECTOR  of  Napoleonana  will  be  content  without  Mr.  Jos- 
selyn's valuable  compilation,  made  as  it  is  upon  original  lines.  Ines- 
timable as  the  work  must  prove  to  professed  colleftors,  it  has  also 
strong  claims  upon  the  general  reader,  owing  to  its  well-judged  con- 
densation and  arrangement  of  leading  events  in  the  career  of  the  greatest  man  of 
modern  times.  At  this  late  day  no  new  word  could  easily  be  said  about  Napoleon. 
Mr.  Josselyn  has  not  tried  to  say  it,  but  he  has  nevertheless  made  a  book  of  endur- 
ing interest  and  value. — New  Orleans  Item,  July  6,  1902. 


PRESS    REVIEWS    OF 

THE  TRUE  NAPOLEON 


THE  Buffalo  Commercial,  after  referring  to  Rose's,  Wilson's  and  Rose- 
berry's  books  on  Napoleon,  speaks  of  The  True  Napoleon  as  follows: 
"In  many  details,  this  is  the  most  popular  publication  of  the  three  — 
the  one  for  which  the  busy  man  or  woman  who  cannot  read  much  will 
be  most  grateful.  It  is  as  though  the  author  had  gone  into  some  library  full  of 
Napoleonic  literature,  made  extensive  notes,  culled  from  the  best  sources  what  is 
most  entertaining,  and  then  printed  them  for  the  reader's  benefit.  The  result  is  a 
marvellously  interesting  book,  that  can  be  opened  at  any  page,  read  at  any  point, 
and  catches  the  reader's  attention  at  once." 

MR.  JOSSELYN  has  worthily  filled  the  office  of  compiler.      Such  an 
office  is  usually  looked   upon  as  an  humble  one  ;    but  to  sift  out  and 
arrange  thousands    of  fafts    requires   more   than    mere    patience    and 
industry  ;  it  means  intelligence  ;  a  sense  of  proportion  and  power  of 
combination,   especially  when    the   book  is  intended  for  the  general  reader.  —  The 
Book  News,  July,  1902. 

ONE  OF  the  most  satisfying  and  intensely  interesting  contributions  to  the 
immense  mass  of  literature  on  the  great  Emperor  of  the  French  is  The 
True  Napoleon,  written  by  Charles  Josselyn. 

The  True  Napoleon  is  not  a  life  of  the  great  Emperor  in  the 
usual  acceptance  of  the  term  ;  it  is  rather,  as  the  author  claims,  a  cyclopedia  of 
events  in  his  life,  comprising  a  compilation  of  anecdotes  and  opinions  incident  to 
himself  and  times,  grouping  interesting  fafts  in  such  a  way  as  to  save  many  who 
are  interested  in  the  life  of  Napoleon  the  trouble  of  wading  through  many  volumes 
to  find  that  which  they  would  like  to  read.  The  book  is,  as  its  title  represents,  a 
diflionary  of  events,  and  as  such  it  will  take  high  rank  as  one  of  the  most  valuable 
contributions  to  Napolconia.  —  The  Western  Trade  Journal. 

THE  VOLUME  is  replete  with  those  features  of  the  man's  career  which 
appeal  to  the  curious  as  well  as  to  the  thoughtful.      Some  one  has  said 
that  Napoleon's  life  contains  the  material  for  a  hundred  ordinary  novels. 
Mr.  Josselyn' s  treatment  of  the  multiplied  incidents  in  his  life  is  of  the 
sort  to  fascinate  every  reader. — St.  Louis  Republic. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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